Facade (AHS: Hotel)
by Jurana Keri
Summary: Recently out of a job, aspiring model Angela Saxon settles on a job she never expected to have—a maid at the enigmatic Hotel Cortez. Detective John Lowe has been assigned to investigate a series of mysterious murders all tracing back to the hotel—and with special help. However, she does not know what she is getting herself into in this tale of intrigue and bloodshed.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

"Very nice!"

 _Click…_

Then came another pose.

"Love the hand on the hip thingy going on!"

 _Click…_

And yet another pose ensued; the fan was gracefully blowing back the wavy, dark brown hair of the model, while its breeze caressed her smooth pale skin.

"Can you give a bit more of a suggestive look?" asked the photographer with a prominent, effeminate lisp, his index finger on the shutter of his Canon EOS Rebel.

"How do you…" Just as the model began to ask what he meant, the photographer gave his impression of the facial expression he was going for.

"Like this, hun," he said with a sly smile, preparing his camera as he watched his subject try to imitate him with bedroom eyes and lips slightly parted. However, she blushed with embarrassment and burst out in laughter. _This is gold_ , the photographer thought as he snapped candid shots of the endlessly smiling model.

"Oh my god, fabulous!" he said, snapping pictures repeatedly as the flash sought to capture the happiness of her moments in front of the stark white backdrop dressed in a cool white blouse and a silver-toned bib necklace with faux stones set in the metal. The model's azure gaze seemed to glitter even in the screen on the Canon EOS Rebel, but her smile was what seemed to make the shoot worth it.

Within moments, it was over—Angela Saxon was officially out of breath and in need of a break.

"Can I leave now?" she asked.

"I thought you _loved_ modelling," the photographer smirked, his lisp as strong as his sarcasm.

"I do," Angela said wearily with a sigh. "I need a break."

"Want to go for a smoke?" the photographer asked as he held out a small blue carton of Newports. The model held her palm outward and shook her head.

"No," she said. "I'm trying to quit."

"You had one yesterday."

"Still," Angela said in a monotone. "No."

The young woman made her way over to one of the director-style folding chairs, made of sturdy ebony plastic and sky-colored canvas, and sat down. She crossed one of her long, well-formed legs over the other and sat back, taking the open neck of her plastic water bottle to her full, natural lips. As the refreshing fluid flowed down into her body, she sighed and licked her lips slowly before turning her soft cerulean gaze upward to see a well-dressed older Hispanic woman walk up to the photographer she had been working with. She eyed the strange combination for an ensemble, consisting of a beige suit jacket and bright yellow pencil skirt with a zebra-print scarf and laced combat boots, especially because odd aesthetics caught her attention in a usually negative fashion. Angela opened her ears to the dialogue between her and the effeminate photographer, biting her lower lip nervously as her face drew inward.

"What do you mean?"

"We are filing for bankruptcy," the woman said in her thick Spanish accent. "I am sorry, but we cannot pay to keep you."

"But…"

Angela's face froze—was the agency closing?

"Ms. Gonzalez?" she interrupted, catching the woman's attention as she finally noticed the vintage purple handbag hanging from the arm that held a few full, pale yellow folders.

"Angela, I was just about to tell you," the photographer interrupted.

"I was given orders by the owner to lay off the models here," the woman in the badly-matched ensemble said; _she doesn't sound too discouraged_ , thought Angela.

"Does that include me?" asked the attractive brunette.

"I hate to do this," Ms. Gonzalez said, "but yes. I am sorry. You cannot work here anymore."

"Does that include _me_?" the photographer asked.

"No."

"Then?"

"I don't understand," Angela cut in, crossing her arms over her chest. "I've modelled here three years. I've been doing well for you guys. Why are you all of a sudden bankrupt?"

"That is the problem," the woman said, her dark eyes peering at Angela. "We have too much projects. We can no longer afford to fund them."

Angela took a breath—modelling was her passion, and she had even spent five years waitressing just to pay for a one-way trip to Los Angeles from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Every tip was a blessing—every cent earned was a customer's way of saying "thank you for the food and good luck with your career". A good majority of those combined with the low wages was put away, every week and for half a decade. She even had the looks; her hair was a dark chocolate brown in natural waves reaching to her upper back. Her eyes were another story, and quite unique in shape; feline-like but almond, but light blue in color. Angela's bearing was more confident than in previous years; a sense of style dressing a pear-shaped frame with long, shapely legs. Hearing this news not only crushed her spirit but gave her ideas to look elsewhere. What was a girl to do?

"Well…" the young woman sighed, standing up and getting her purse, jacket and water bottle. "I guess that's it, then."

"Don't be discouraged, hun," the photographer said. "Anyone would be stupid to turn away a pretty face like yours from a modelling agency."

"It's been a pleasure working with you."

"Likewise," Angela said, alternating her eyes from the Hispanic woman in the strange outfit and the effeminate photographer, who handed her a card with two phone numbers and an email address. It also said his name—Jeff.

"Here," he offered, "I can give you a good reference."

"Thank you."

The attractive model with dark brown waves and feline-shaped blue eyes had nothing else to say as she placed the business card in her coat pocket and nodded affirmatively at the oddly-dressed woman. As she walked out of the room through the wide doorway, she couldn't help but overhear the accent of the woman conversing with Jeff, the photographer.

"So, what do you want me to do with these shots?" he asked, putting the camera in front of her so that she could see the digital shots of Angela's smiling face against a stark white background. "I think they're fabulous."

A few seconds after seeing only three of the shots by pressing the arrow button, Angela heard the woman scoff from outside the room.

"Get rid of them. Too plain," Ms. Gonzalez said dismissively.

"But what about _these_? You didn't even get to see the rest and the best of them!"

There was a silence—Angela was no longer smiling anymore, but biding her time as she heard exactly what she needed to hear from the woman.

"Her smile is not model-material," she said. "Trash them."

"I want to keep them," Jeff protested.

"Fine. I hope you do not keep them for your promotion," Angela heard the Hispanic woman say.

"Promotion?"

"No more camera for you. You are bossing the people _with_ cameras now," she said.

"Wait," Jeff droned, "didn't you say we were going bankrupt?"

"Yes, but you are going somewhere else. Transfer."

"Why didn't you just transfer Angela, too? What about the _rest_ of the models?"

What was said next made Angela's stomach turn; a familiar feeling of insecurity and doubt overcame her.

"She looks too plain. Not glamorous at all."

Shaking her head, Angela left and walked down the hall of the agency, walking past the receptionist, vending machines, offices, potted plants; she bit her lip so hard the pain caused tunnel vision as she made her way toward the 2012 Ford Fusion in the nearby parking garage. She took out her key and opened the driver's seat door, plopping down on the cushioned exterior as she tossed her bag on the passenger's seat. She flashed her head forward onto the steering wheel, sounding the horn in the process. A single tear rolled down her pale cheek, and her nose felt like it was about to drip. The horn was still going, and it took someone outside the car to remind her to deactivate it.

"STOP FUCKING BEEPING!"

Angela finally took her head off the steering wheel and saw an older man in a gray trench coat and black beanie walk by her car. Feeling a pain in her head, she ignored it and started the ignition, driving off at a speed so fast it seemed deadly. Yet it was amazing how she stayed so in tune with her surroundings.

* * *

 _I need to find another place to work._

 _If not modelling, then anything, I guess._

Angela sat on her couch with a glass of citrus water on her lamp stand and a half-smoked cigarette in between her fingers. It had been a terrible day thus far, and she knew she had to do something, or at least anything, to help her forget about Ms. Gonzalez's disheartening words and the crushing of her modelling dreams. The canary yellow lamp was dim, but the laptop provided more than enough light for her to see as she looked for jobs.

As she dragged on her cigarette, she went through a variety of sites listing both odd jobs, part-time and even full time.

Craigslist offered everything, but nothing that quite matched her interests. She couldn't sing in a band or be paid to perform sexual acts. _No thanks_.

Monster offered mostly corporal jobs. _I don't have a degree_.

Snag-A-Job, however, changed all of that—putting out her finished cigarette in the clear glass ashtray by her cup of citrus water, she looked closely at the third most recent job description posted just two days earlier:

" _Hotel Maid Wanted_

 _Located at Hotel Cortez; Los Angeles, CA_

 _Must be able to follow written and verbal instructions without question._

 _Pay starts at $10 per hour._

 _Better chances of being hired if you have cleaning skills and/or prior hospitality experience._

 _Call 666-666-6606._ "

Angela sighed at the thought of another meager job to get by. Yes, she had saved enough from her days at the agency, but was it really worth it to settle for less than what she truly wanted?

 _"_ _She's too plain. Not glamorous at all."_

Shaking her head, the memory of the badly-dressed woman played in her head like a broken record as she reached for her cell phone and pressed the home button, swiping the bar on the bottom of it and tapping the phone icon on the touch screen. She typed in the phone number and as it started to dial, she felt a chill run down her spine. It was not of fear—it was the eerie, seductive calmness of the woman on the phone.

"You have reached the Hotel Cortez. May I help you?"

"Uh…y-yes," Angela stammered. "I…I am replying to your ad for a hotel maid."

"Oh, yes. Iris must have posted that. I did tell her to."

"Uh-huh, yes…uh…I…I am in a tough position right now, and I need the job," she said. "I-Is it possible to h-have an interview?"

"You will need to come here for the interview, dear," the soft voice said.

"How soon?"

"Very soon. As soon as possible," the woman said.

"Alright."

There was a pause, until the woman on the other end began to speak again.

"What is your name? You sound lovely."

"I am Angela," the brunette said. "Angela Saxon."

"What an interesting name. Come tomorrow, if you please. Iris will be expecting you at the front desk."

"Thank you."

 _Click._

Angela found something peculiar about the fact that the woman suddenly hung up on her. What was even weirder was her voice—why did it sound like she belonged in a secretary's office in a corporation rather than a hotel? She took a sip of her citrus water and let the bitter, sour taste run down her throat as she lit another cigarette without another thought of the woman's eerily calm voice.


	2. Chapter 1

_- **chapter one** -_

Walking into one of the bloodiest crime scenes he had ever seen in his career, Detective John Lowe was never so shocked as he paced his way into a hotel in downtown Los Angeles. He had seen someone, perhaps a lifeless corpse wrapped in a body bag by the forensics team, carried out strapped on top of a gurney. He looked around, his distinctively-shaped face and furrowed, dark brow moving slightly as his cold, inquisitive blue eyes found the crime scene's main focus.

A man and a woman, who looked to be engaging in sexual acts during the crime, were in a reversed cowgirl position on the white sheets covering the bed. The man beneath seemed to be alive, mumbling unintelligibly with agony, but his face was unrecognizable and covered in blood and torn tissues. The woman was still on top but impaled by a harpoon through the chest that went right through the ivory-toned headboard. The officer walking behind Lowe, who led him to the scene, broke the ice in discussing the mysterious case.

"We think the culprit took the master key from housekeeping," he informed the detective.

"No one heard anything?" Lowe asked.

"It seems like both were chloroformed the minute they got into the door," the other officer said.

"Just great." The sarcasm in the detective's voice was evident now; the forensic photographer kept taking pictures of the scene, even of crucial pieces of evidence found around the bed upon which the victims were laying. John made his way to the bedside table, careful not to disturb the current state of the scene, and noticed three familiar-looking body parts laying there stuck by the natural fluids remaining.

"These are his eyeballs and tongue," Lowe noticed, looking at the pieces disgustedly.

"This area has already been documented," the officer urged.

"Not by me."

The living but injured man beneath the woman impaled by the harpoon to the headboard kept mumbling. If he was crying, then tears were not coming from the empty sockets he now had for eyes. John could not help but notice another key clue that the others had overlooked at the scene—the dead, impaled woman was wearing a wedding ring on her left finger.

"They were married," he indicated. "But not to each other. They were cheating. There was no pissed-off spouse involved. It wasn't jealousy at all. It was something else. Who would drive someone to this extreme an act?"

"Beats me," the officer said with a shrug. John continued his way toward the injured man beneath the woman's corpse, who seemed to weep and cry in pain and fear at what had happened.

"Sir?" the detective said. "We are going to get you out of here as soon as possible."

"He's still inside her," the officer said.

"I can definitely see a lot of Viagra in his system. You won't be able to detach them here. Take him with the corpse and cut him loose."

It was the voice of a woman—it immediately caught John Lowe's attention as he turned around.

She did not look like a detective on duty, or any kind of law enforcement occupation for that matter. In fact, she looked like a regular civilian. She was quite attractive, as well—she was rather short but slim-figured with long strawberry-blonde hair, easy blue-gray eyes, and an oval face with rosy lips and a kissed complexion. Her manner of dress amazed John in not so much a negative way, but he never expected someone on a crime scene to be vested in a brightly-patterned maxi skirt, a silk button-up blouse, and a dreamcatcher necklace with real feathers and suede to hang it around the neck. There was a slight smile in her lips, and she looked to the officer who led Lowe to the crime scene, who stared back and gasped.

"Who might you be? You can't be here," John told the woman.

"Klein," she said with a sigh. "Pamela Klein."

"What is that you do, Ms. Klein?" the detective questioned.

"She is the newest member of our team," the officer said. "Forgive me for not introducing you."

"This isn't the best place anyhow," Pamela said, looking at the bodies.

"I...agree," John stated with a nod. "But…are you—"

"I'm a police psychic," Pamela said bluntly.

"Uh…" _I need to let this sink in_ , he thought to himself, _there's no way this is real_.

"Trust me. It's real," she cut in—John's cold blue eyes widened in shock; was she reading his mind? "I was tested. I am the real deal."

"Did you collect all the data you will need from the scene for now, John?" the officer cut in.

"Uh, yes," Lowe said. "Off to the office now."

"Let Pamela come with you," he said.

"Why?" John said with confusion.

"She's your new partner. The lieutenant found her to be a perfect fit for the cases to come."

"To _come_?"

"Yes," Pamela said, walking further away from the bloody crime scene with John by her side. As they made their way out the door, she finished her sentence and ended John's bewilderment; "this is a true monster we have on our hands. He or she seems to love hotels."

* * *

John and Pamela arrived at the police station within a half hour, less time than usual due to a lack of afternoon rush-hour traffic in the streets of downtown Los Angeles. As they walked into the rows of desks, everyone seemed to have their eyes on Pamela's strange bohemian clothing choice as the sound of her flat boots filled the room. A secretary, whom she saw walking to John from the corner of her eye, held out a folder full of papers and crime scene content to the detective.

"Is this the report?" John asked the secretary.

"Not from the hotel homicide this morning, no," she replied slowly.

"Martin Gamboa?" Pamela asked, putting a look of shock on the secretary's face.

"Uh…yes…maybe _you_ could look at it?" she asked. "If John is okay with it."

"She's my partner on these cases now," John said. "She _has_ to."

"It doesn't mean I'll like what I see," the police psychic said.

"No one does. I've been a detective for years and these things still bother me," John replied.

As the secretary walked away, the two made their way into the detective's office, where John gestured his open hand toward an upholstered leather chair in front of the desk. He flicked on the vintage desk lamp with a brass bead pull string and green porcelain shade and sat down. Pamela, who was holding the file, nearly dropped it the moment she saw a bloodied, messy corpse in one of the pictures. She read from the description slowly, trying to absorb all the details.

"Martin Gamboa," she began, "aged forty-seven. He was an Oscar blogger, 187 occurred at his home in Silver Lake."

"Are you _seeing_ this or _reading_ it?" John asked.

"I'm reading, just listen," Pamela said, clearing her throat. "The victim died from blunt force trauma to the head. There's evidence of wounds on arms and thorax; some defensive. Whoever did this wanted him to suffer first. There are also fractures to the radius and the ulna of the right arm; compound fractures of the humerus of the left arm with bone protrusions through the skin." Pamela grimaced, swallowing her nausea and continuing "There are traces of what appear to be gold paint chips in the rectal cavity as well as in what is left of the cranium."

"Yes," John said. "That's what was found."

"You wrote it all right here. Very neat handwriting, I must say," Pamela said.

"So…why did they hire you? Why did they put you with me?"

"I told you why."

"No," John said, "I mean why did they put you with me?"

"Because they saw me to be a perfect fit for the cases to come. I have a strong feeling there will be many of them, unfortunately. All leading to one place," she explained, relying on her intuition to give a clear answer.

"Where?"

"I see it is a…rather vintage hotel…yes, it's another hotel," she said, her eyes closed as she attuned her natural second sight on what she was receiving. "Endless hallways. Enough geometry to make even someone like me sick to my stomach. It…is grisly—"

 _RING-RING!_

It was a notification on John's cellphone for a Facetime. Pamela fell silent upon hearing the voice of a little girl, John's blonde daughter Scarlett, on the other line. She rolled her eyes complacently.

"Hi, daddy!" she exclaimed.

"Hey, how's my little girl?" John asked sweetly to his daughter.

"I'm good. School was so funny!"

"What happened?" he asked his daughter—Pamela crossed her arms impatiently, one leg over the other as she remained in the chair.

"Lizzy Cooper threw up in the middle of spelling. Now they're calling her Lizzy Puker," Scarlett giggled.

"How is your mother?" he asked. "Does she want to talk to me?"

There was a pause—Pamela heard the little girl talking to her mother in the background, asking if she wanted to speak with John.

"No," his wife said. _What a bitch_ , Pamela thought, furrowing her brows. John sighed, discouraged by this thought, but was immediately cheered up with his daughter's voice.

"We ate dinner. It's almost bedtime, too. Can you read to me?" Scarlett asked over Facetime. John smiled, but just when he reached for his copy of _Little Women_ , Pamela gave him the coldest, most impatient stare he had ever seen; _we have work to do_ , she thought to herself. Luckily, the voice of a woman, John's wife, in the background ceased the girl's intentions.

"No, your father is working. He can't read."

"But mom!"

"No. Go to sleep."

And the Facetime ended there—Scarlett had said a quick goodnight. John frowned and looked at Pamela, whose face was as blank as a white sheet of copy paper.

"So, what is the plan?" she asked, her arms and legs still crossed in her seat as her patterned maxi skirt cascaded down the length of her legs.

"I always read to her at bedtime," he muttered. "Do you have kids?"

"No," she said. "Never would want them, either."

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-seven."

"You don't look it, but I'm sure you'll change your mind later," John said with a smirk.

"No. I just don't like kids. I can tolerate them only to a certain extent," Pamela said.

There was a silence. As Pamela put the file full of disturbing crime scene content on John's desk, she sighed complacently and breathed out her nose.

"There are actually two, aren't there, Mr. Lowe?" she asked.

He turned pale and cold as ice—what was she getting at here? Was she trying to prove herself as the "real deal" being a police psychic?

"Ex _cuse_ me?"

"Don't be afraid. I know you have a son. He was taken from a family event, a _carnival_. Yes?" she affirmed.

He did not answer, at least no more than a loud, apprehensive gulp.

"His name…it's on the tip of my tongue…Harold…Homer… _Holden_?" she asked, getting the visions exactly as they were coming to her. "If you put your daughter and him side to side, you would think they were twins."

"I…I…" John was speechless, but listened: _does she know where he is_ , he asked himself in his mind.

"I'm getting the image of a woman," she said, looking at him and leaning forward; his attention was entirely on her at that very moment. "Glamorous…a long, sparkling gown…but…a claw…I'm getting the image of a claw. I see a claw. I can't put my finger on _where_ she is, but I feel like she has a connection with the disappearance of your son. And I also know…this has caused a…a…strain on your marriage."

"H-How do you know this?" he asked in a frightened tone.

"I do. I didn't choose to have this gift," Pamela said. "It chose me."

"D-Do you sense my son is far?" he asked; his heart was racing a million miles an hour at this point. Her psychic abilities were one hundred and one percent accurate in assessing his private life and a possible matter at hand regarding his missing son Holden, mysteriously abducted from a carnival carousel five years before.

"Not at all. I can't put my finger on where he is, though. I feel a blockage in energy coming from the place. Therefore, I don't know where he exactly is," she said. "But I know for certain, when we uncover another hotel crime that is yet to come, we will come across him."

"When?" he asked with his jaw dropped.

"Soon."

In the moment of silence, Pamela got up from the upholstered leather chair in front of his desk and walked to the door, opening it. Before leaving, however, she looked at John, whose eyes were locked on her steadily; he was still amazed and shocked at the revelations she had told him.

"Mr. Lowe," she added. "The next time your wife tries to call you, answer it. It is not what it seems, but it will be useful."

And she left without further word, leaving John afraid and unsure, yet confused and amazed.

* * *

The following evening, John came home from work at the police station, and oddly enough, he had not seen Pamela at all the entire day. A fellow officer claimed she was trying to remotely locate the body of a murder victim in the area unrelated to the hotel incident. When he walked into the door, he was greeted by Scarlett and their dog. The little girl reached up to hug her father, and the dog barked contently at his return.

"Daddy!"

"Hey, how's my little girl?" he asked sweetly.

"I'm good, and you?" she asked.

"Just great," John replied.

His attention went to his wife Alex—a pediatrician, she was wearing her lab coat and rummaging through the contents of her black, worn leather tote with brass-toned buckles in the front. She was plain faced with blue eyes, a dewy complexion, and stringy golden hair tied back in a ponytail. She also looked quite flustered, flashing her glare at her husband with irritation. When he approached her, she sighed wearily.

"Hey," he said to her. "I'm sorry for being late."

"The text is more considerate than you, clearly," Alex replied. "It came at six o'clock, just when you were supposed to be here and watch Scarlett."

"I'm sorry," John said, looking down at his polished leather dress shoes.

"Well, that won't do me good. I have a kid with a sprained ankle in Beverly Hills and twins with whooping cough in the Palisades right after," she ranted in a huffy breath.

There was a silence—John kept listening, but Alex just seemed to get more aggravated as she slapped the flap back over the opening of her worn leather tote.

"Damn it, it pisses me off when parents refuse to vaccinate their kids," she said forcefully, whispering out of consideration for her daughter's ears. "I don't care how much they pay me. I was called in because everyone else is busy and can't work. I normally refuse to see parents like that."

Another silence—John made his way to the table, and Alex's voice stopped him, changing the subject.

"I made that casserole you two like," she said.

"Thanks," John said. "I'm a bit hungry."

"You should've eaten that protein bar I stuffed in your pocket."

"I didn't get to," he said to her, watching her pack her stuff to leave. He felt her lips graze his cheek briskly before seeing her hug their daughter and pat their dog one last time before leaving. Looking down, he saw that the casserole set out for him and Scarlett was hard, stale, and cold. He put down his fork and cleaned up both dishes, not even caring that it was a waste until his daughter stood in the kitchen doorway and offered a suggestion.

"Can we get sushi instead?" she asked.

"Read my mind."

* * *

"Should we ask if this fish has radiation?" Scarlett asked, looking down at the tuna rolls and salmon tataki in between her and her father as they dined in the nearby Japanese restaurant. John just chuckled and held his chopsticks, smiling and shaking his head.

"No," he joked. "You sound like your mother."

"She always says she has good reason to worry," Scarlett said.

 _Ring-ring!_

There went John's cellphone suddenly ringing in the restaraunt—Scarlett reached her hand out, her knack for good manners getting the best of her.

"No phones at the table," she said.

"It's your mother," he said, putting the phone to his ear as soon as he redialed the number already in his contacts. When the ringing on the other end stopped, he got redirected to a voice mailbox, but no sooner did it end when another call came. Scarlett, sitting across from him, looked at her father strangely as he answered the unfamiliar number.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Lowe?"

"Uh… _Pamela_?"

"Yes, it's pretty damn important."

"Whoa, whoa," he protested, "how did you get my number?"

"That's not important. Just listen," she instructed. "You need to come here _right now_."

"Where?" John asked.

"I…don't even know where I am," Pamela answered. "I followed my instincts and…I…ended up here. It's on one of the longer stretches on the outer part of town. It's… _very_ run-down and dark so please _hurry_!"

"Don't worry, I'm on my way."

After the waitress came by and gave them their tab on request by John, as well as their leftovers to take home, Scarlett was confused as to why John was in such a rush to leave. He kept the excuse that it was "police work", which worried her even more the further they drove toward their destination. Pamela, even in the night, was not hard to miss with her brightly-colored, patterned clothing. Her arm waved out to him on the side of the road, where another police car was parked and two more policemen stood. As he sped toward them, he walked to Pamela and made subtle eye contact.

"Are you okay?" he questioned with concern.

"In there…it's…it's…"

She had a look of trauma and disgust on her face, her complexion almost green as she ran toward a bush and hurled chunks of undigested stomach matter into it. Scarlett, who was sitting in the back of her father's car, saw her vomit and grimaced as she wondered if she was well enough to stay there at all. John gasped, looking at the other officer.

"Have you been inside yet?" John asked.

"No, I just got here. Pamela pinged me," the policeman said.

"Watch my daughter. I'm going in," he warned.

"John, no!" Pamela shouted definitely.

Pulling out his gun, he ignored her pleas as he made his way into the run-down, dark building. He was fortunate to at least have the light of a waning gibbous shining down into the structure, but he was still wary of his surroundings. He was stealthy in his movements, holding out the gun defensively.

"Who's there?!" he shouted. "Police!"

 _Ring-ring!_

His cellphone rang again; _Alex_ , he thought as he saw the name. Putting it to his ear, he spoke frantically.

"Alex! What the hell? You didn't—"

" _I_ nailed them to the headboard," a male voice said.

"W-Who is this?" John simply froze, speechless. "W-Where is my wife?!"

"I told you I'd do it again," the male's voice said. "Look behind you."

When he did, he almost fainted. It was also the reason why Pamela had thrown up outside in the bush upon his arrival—two corpses, both of men, had their abdomens ripped open and were eviscerated, their intestines dangling out as stale blood dropped onto the concrete floor. A pang of nausea ran through his torso, and as he tried to hold back the urge to puke, he talked into the phone again.

"Where are you? Why did you do this?" he asked fiercely, holding out his gun. "Show yourself!"

"I'm not where _you_ are…" The voice trailed off.

"Please cooperate with me," John hissed. "Don't fuck around."

"I'm in the Hotel Cortez," the voice said. "Room 64."

 _Click._

* * *

 ** _~ a/n ~_**

 **The long-awaited first chapter of** _'Façade (AHS: Hotel)_ ' **is FINALLY HERE! I've gotten a lot of reviews on the prologue alone and this story has a bunch of favorites and follows so THANK YOU all for the love!**

 **NOTE:** Kaya Scodelario (actress from _Skins_ and _The Maze Runner_ ) plays Angela Saxon. Evan Rachel Wood (actress from _Thirteen_ and _Across the Universe_ ) plays Pamela Klein.

 **So, as always, please leave Reviews, and be sure to Follow and Favorite if you liked it!**

 **Want to see more? Well, good news for you! I plan on updating every couple of days! Stay tuned!**


	3. Chapter 2

\- **_chapter_ _two_** -

As Angela made her way down the street, she kept her eyes peeled for a sign that said the name of the hotel she had called in response to the job ad. Her shoes, which were simple, classy black kitten heels, clacked against the concrete as she looked above her at the building she was coming toward; it was so tall she could have sworn it was a skyscraper, and in a big, vertical neon set of lighted letters read " _Hotel Cortez_ ". The exterior was nothing too special; in fact, it looked like every other building in this part of Los Angeles, aged and dirtied from years of exposure to the elements. Looking up at the letters, Angela sighed, crossing her fingers behind her back as she made her way in through the doors.

It came as a surprise knowing that the interior lobby of the hotel was the grandest she had ever seen, like something out of an old movie from the silver screen; art deco architecture with hexagons inlaid into the yards of crimson and ebony carpet. In the middle section were scarlet upholstered seats that looked comfortable enough to sleep in, and from the ceiling, so high above, were narrow crystal chandeliers. There was a chill sent up her spine—the place gave off the vibe of vacancy, as if no one was there, hustling and bustling to make their reservations. Angela's jaw dropped, her feline-like blue eyes capturing the scenery in her mind's eye as she walked slowly in search of the front desk. It was not in the conventional place; rather, there was a very large staircase at the end of the large, hall-like lobby while the receptionist's desk was put to her left.

She turned her gaze to see a woman in her sixties at the very least. She had an unsmiling, rigid visage, which seemed to be permanently plastered behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. She wore a thick, plain vest over a button-up blouse, and she was heavy set due to age. Her nails were painted a bright red and Angela could tell they had grown out some on the bottom. She noticed the woman with her hand on a pen, her other hand sliding the bell away from the edge of the desk. Angela licked her lips to ease their dryness and made her way slowly to the front of the receptionist.

"Uh…excuse me?" the young woman asked, catching the woman's attention. "I…I responded to that ad in the paper? Y-You were looking for a maid?"

"I hope you don't plan on getting those nice clothes dirty, young lady," the mature receptionist said in response, her voice as cold as her stare. Angela had made sure to put time into her appearance to make a good impression—clad in a black pencil skirt, short-sleeve crisp white button-up, and her dark brown waves brushed neatly, there was no way, in her mind, any employer would pass her up.

"Oh," Angela muttered. "I…I am here for an interview. I am Angela. I…I spoke with a…uh…lady who said to see… _Iris_ , on the phone? I-Is she here?"

"I am Iris," the woman said, sitting upright as though a rod had be shoved up her back. Angela slinked her head back, showing some indication that she was intimidated, but she tried to be courteous no matter how frightened she was by this lady.

"Right," the young woman said with a nod. "I'm…happy to meet you."

Iris did not respond—she just stared at the young woman long and hard, especially focusing on her long, well-formed legs and her neck, which was smooth and thin. Angela broke the silence, being bolder than she was capable of.

"Uh…a-are you going to ask me some questions?" she asked.

"No need," Iris said, nodding. "We have needed a maid for a while, actually."

"R-Really? That bad?"

"Yeah, I'll have Liz show you around."

"Liz?" Angela questioned with furrowed brows.

"Liz!"

Iris' voice called out to the area behind her, out from which what looked like a man with terrible makeup come out of a closed door. Angela nearly gasped, but tried to not be so judgmental at first glance—the man in drag was bald, his head clean as a whistle. His eyes were done in what looked to be Egyptian-style black kohl with flamboyant blue eyeshadow that was almost too much for her eyes to take. His brows also were badly drawn, pencil-thin and arches so liberal that they could have reached the top of his forehead. There were distinctive smile wrinkles around his mouth, which surprisingly had no lipstick. From his ears were costume earrings that looked like a princess could have worn them, and his ensemble consisted of a bright blue caftan and what Angela assumed to be wedge heels.

"Liz," Iris said to the drag queen. "This is Angela, our new maid. Show her around."

"Right away," he said in an elevated tone, looking at the young woman as he came from behind the counter. "Right this way, please."

Angela followed the graceful flow of the light blue caftan on the drag queen's body, seeing him gracefully walk in the wedge sandals she had predicted were beneath the hemline. She was still so shocked to see someone like him dressed so outrageously. Did he work here? Or was he a resident? She had so many questions running through her head as they made their way into the elevator.

"So…uh…"

"I'm Liz Taylor," he said.

"Like the _actress_?" she asked with shock.

"She's my favorite," he gushed, his manicured, long nails swiping the air in front of him.

"I see." There was a pause in her voice. "So…do you live here?"

"Oh, I've been here for so long. Old timers like me have been here since the dawn of time," he said eerily. "We have people in and out. Some people pay by the month, and some by the hour."

Angela's eyes widened at this statement, and when Liz's gaze caught hers, she felt one of his manicured, long nails lift her chin with the help of his finger.

"You're so pretty," he said with a grin. "You could model."

"I… _did_ model…before coming here," Angela explained.

"Why did you give it up? What a _waste_ of _such_ a pretty face," Liz exclaimed in a hushed tone.

"I didn't give it up."

"Huh?"

"I was laid off."

"Why?" Liz looked at her just as the elevator stopped at the second floor.

"Because I was too plain and 'un'-glamorous."

"Who told you that?" the drag queen asked as the door opened.

"I wasn't told." Angela paused and sighed, seeing the seemingly endless hallway before them as they got off the elevator. "I heard the lady in the higher-ups say it about me."

"That's _terrible_. She is _wrong_ ," Liz said with frustration.

"Whatever."

They continued to walk down the hallway, and as they did, Angela felt a strange pang of anxiety wrack her nerves. There was something very unsettling about this extravagant hotel, but maybe it was the irrational fear of being lost in such a large building and its many halls. Liz led the way to what looked like a linen closet, and stopped. Angela noticed the door was shut.

"What's in here?"

"Oh, maid stuff. It's still so hard to believe you're willing to give up a dream just because some jealous bitch was nasty behind your back," Liz said.

"Look, it's not important," Angela said with a subtle frown.

"It is, and I can see it in your eyes," he said, lifting her chin up with his finger again. The eye contact was eerie, especially because of the tonality of what he said next: "it's a familiar pain. You've wanted to be only the best for years. Such a shame that you're stuck here. You can't move forward, and you can't move back. It's sad."

Without another word, he began to walk away. Angela was speechless, shaking her head unevenly and making sure the drag queen wasn't looking back at her. Sighing, she looked to a distinctive hotel room door with clean, polished wood; it were as though it had just been replaced with a new unit.

She could have sworn she had heard a child's laughter, but maybe that was a guest in a nearby room, or this room—Room 64.

* * *

"Maybe we should go and stay with Mary."

Alex had set aside John to have a private talk away from their young daughter about the night before. His wife was safe and unharmed, and John realized that her phone number was cloned by whomever had committed the gruesome murder of the cheating couple at the hotel and the two disemboweled men in the abandoned house on the outside of town. Alex was upset, to say the least, that John had the audacity to bring Scarlett to a dangerous place.

"In _New Hampshire_?" he questioned incredulously. "I don't want to do that to Scarlett. It's already bad enough. She should be able to sleep in her own bed." He paused, holding Alex's hand. "Look, I have an idea. I'm going to have two uniformed men with you at all times. One will go to school with Scarlett, one's going to go to work with you, and these guys are _very_ good at what they do. You're not even going to _know_ they are there unless you need them."

"Do you even know what this guy looks like?" Alex questioned.

"No."

"I don't even understand how he texted you from my phone," his wife said, getting more worried. "I mean, do you think that he knows where we live?" She slapped her palm to her face. " _Jesus_ , John. What are we going do?!"

"I doubt that," he said. "Don't worry."

"I should just get a gun," Alex suggestion.

"No," John protested. "You don't need to get a gun. Don't worry. I'll keep you guys safe."

"How do you figure that?"

"I…I have a feeling he'll be after me again," John said, "but if that happens, I don't want you _or_ Scarlett near me, for both your sake."

"John," Alex interrupted. "I'm not upset that you're leaving. In fact, I _want_ for you to leave."

"I know." He sounded discouraged, but listened to her anyways.

"You shouldn't have brought Scarlett to that place, I don't care where you were to begin with. What were you _thinking_?!" she barked silently.

"I thought you were in trouble. The cop watched her. She didn't even leave the car," John argued. "Scarlett is the world to me. I would _never_ be so stupid as to put her in harm's way."

"I don't blame you for Holden, no matter what you think," Alex said, standing up and starting to bite her nails nervously. "He…looks just so much like you. I see him in your face every day and I just want to _die_ …" Her voice cracked, and a tear rolled down from one of her blue eyes. "You know what that _feels_ like? It's not fair. Our boy was _taken_! I can't even look at the _one_ person in the world who understands how I feel. It hurts."

"I know it does. It hurts me, too, Alex," John empathized.

"The worst part is, I can't stop hoping that he is alive and safe somewhere out there."

 _Safe_ , John thought, _what if Pamela was right in what she told me?_

* * *

So to solve his problem of keeping his wife and daughter safe from whomever was targeting him by phone, he checked into the enigmatic Hotel Cortez and with Pamela joining him; this would make it easier to investigate the crimes at hand. Iris knew right off the bat that he was a policeman, but due to Pamela and her bohemian fashion sense, she just seemed like another guest. It wasn't like she disclosed her profession as a police psychic, either. John was given the keys to Room 64, and as they went toward the elevator, she looked around suspiciously.

"This place is giving me anxiety," she whispered.

"Huh?"

"Yeah," Pamela said. "You know, the creeps? I'm surprised you're not pissing your pants right now."

"Why would I be? I'm not scared," John said under his breath as he pressed the elevator button.

"I don't know." She said. "Well, the place is vintage. Let's hope they have Carpenters albums in the rooms."

"Huh?" John asked. "The… _Carpenters_?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Karen and Richard! You know?"

"Oh, them."

"If I could revive Karen from the dead, I would kill for a duet with her," she said with enthusiasm. "Her songs speak to my soul…well, even though Richard wrote them. He was a talent, and—"

"Before you go off on a tangent," John said, noticing her voice get louder with enthusiasm, "remember there may be guests in here."

"Oh. Right."

John used the old, brass keys to unlock the door to Room 64, and as soon as they walked in, Pamela put down her suitcases and made her way over to where the vintage record player stood. Crouching down, she knelt on the strangely clean carpet and opened the cabinet beneath to find an array of albums from the mid-20th century to the end of the vinyl era. She held out her index finger and ran her finger across the thin sleeves, and John watched her with a blank stare.

"Is this what you do in every hotel?" he questioned.

"Not really. Everywhere I go, it's digital," the police psychic answered as she moved a strawberry-blonde hair from her forehead and behind her ear. "This is a vintage kind of place."

John was silent, sitting down on one of the two freshly-made beds with his back straight as a ruler, turning his head to Pamela when he suddenly heard enthusiasm in her voice.

"Bingo!"

To her delight, she found a tan-colored album sleeve with _Carpenters_ written in a strange font across the rather plain cover. Taking it from the dense collection of albums, she looked at the back and smiled at the tracklist of some of their greatest hits from the early-1970s. She took care in opening the sleeve to remove the album before standing to place it on a table nearby. She had to blow the dust off the record player's needle before putting on the album. John shook his head and sighed stressfully?

"Really?" he asked. " _Now_?"

"What? Is there an issue?" Pamela sassed.

"No, but…we literally just got here and it's starting to get dark," John said. "I'm tired."

"Who cares?"

"Whatever," he said, laying back on the bed as if to take a nap. "Keep it down, then."

John laid his head on the pillow, his shiny, short raven-black hair pressed against the pillow as he stared up at the bland ceiling and the old antique light fixture hanging from it. The first song on the record began to play, called _Rainy Days and Mondays_ , and the initial harmonica tone was enough to relax him. Yet Pamela began to lightly sing, her voice soft and breathy, when the second verse began to play:

" _What I feel has come and gone before_

 _No need to talk it out_

 _We know what it's all about_

 _Hangin' around_

 _Nothin' to do but frown_

 _Rainy days and Mondays always get me down…_ "

* * *

Within hours, Pamela had fallen asleep on the suite's sofa with the record continuing to play. It was light sleep, a nap, but she woke up to find that the lights had been turned off. It was not dark when she fell asleep, strangely enough. Her mascara also seemed to glue both sets of eyelashes together as she sluggishly opened her eyes to what looked to be a bluish atmosphere. It seemed rather spiritual, not even from the physical plane, and when she sat up, she saw the image of a woman dressed in an old-time maid costume standing behind an ironing board with linens pressed to it. Pamela's eyes widened, and she gulped upon hearing the strange woman's words.

"The horror!" the maid exclaimed. "I must use ammonia on these sheets. These stains are resilient!"

 _What stains_ , Pamela asked herself; but then she spoke aloud. "What stains, miss?"

"Oh, just the usual," the maid responded.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude," Pamela said right after the maid finished talking, "but my partner and I are trying to get rest. Can you leave?"

"I am just doing my job," she said with a calm breath.

"But we didn't call room service," she said.

But then it hit her—this woman was not alive. There was no way she could have been. No maid or hotel housekeeper dressed in long skirts and frilly aprons anymore. Even her hair was in an outdated style—reddish ringlets with the rest of her curls tied back in a messy bun. Pamela nodded with understanding at this, taking a deep breath.

"Uh…you are deceased, correct?" she asked.

"How did you know?" the maid asked.

"No maid dresses like that anymore. Plus, how do you explain the fact that I'm talking to you? I'm receptive to your presence, miss," Pamela said. "Can you tell me your name?"

"I am Miss Evers."

"And how did you die, Miss Evers?" the police psychic asked, looking up at her from her seat on the couch. The maid put down the iron in the metal grate attached to the ironing board and smoothed out the new, clean, fresh linen she had gotten the stain out of.

"It was an honorable death, my dear," the maid said.

"You were _murdered_?"

"Yes." There was a pause. " _Honorably_."

"I-I don't understand."

Then came the sound of children's laughter, which immediately caught Pamela's attention. She gasped and turned to see the image of an albino-like young boy with pale skin, yellowing blond hair, and in a black suit jacket with matching shorts and black combat-style boots. His pale eyes looked up at her with a slight, devilish grin in his lips. She gasped, and turned to the maid, but she was gone.

"Miss? Hello?" she asked.

She turned her head toward the boy to see him sprint away out of the room. So Pamela booked it out of the hotel room and ran after the pale-skinned boy and down the hallway of overwhelming geometric patterns on the walls and floors, past numerous locked doors.

"Hello! Stop!" she called to the boy, who giggled as he kept running and leading her further astray in the strange halls that only seemed to get narrower.

"Hehehehehe…"

The sound suddenly stopped when she found herself at an intersection between the hall she had been in and three other hallways. She felt a chill run down her spine as she spun around in each direction, trying to decide where to go. It seemed like an endless maze that even she couldn't see her way out of using her innate psychic talents. As soon as she began to hyperventilate, she looked into the hallway ahead to see a woman with kinky, bleached-blonde hair in a leopard print coat and a black dress underneath. Her makeup was dark and sloppy, and from her sangria-colored lips hung a fresh cigarette that was just lit as she walked toward Pamela. The police psychic's jaw dropped staring at her.

"Hello?" she called out. "I'm lost. Can you help me, miss? I've never been here before."

"Are you looking for someone?" the woman asked in a raspy, but feminine pitch.

"Someone to help me back to my room would be nice," Pamela sassed.

The woman just laughed sinisterly and smirked, dragging on her cigarette and shaking her head.

"People get lost in these halls so easy," she droned. "This place is bat-shit crazy. Could drive anyone insane. Weird things go down, especially at night."

"I know," Pamela answered, crossing her arms and coughing slightly at the stench of nicotine and cheap perfume coming off the woman.

"You look like you could use a drink," the woman said, walking past her and blowing out the smoke from her cigarette. "Come with me."

"I don't want a drink. I just want to go back to my room," she said.

"Pushy," the woman in the leopard print coat said.

"I'm not pushy, but I can tell _you_ are," Pamela sassed. "Are you a resident here?"

"Yeah. Been living here a long time," she said. " _Too_ long."

"A-Are you dead, _too_ , miss?"

"Oh, I'm about as _alive_ as I've ever been, sweetheart," the woman sneered.

"You're not alive."

The woman stopped in her tracks, slowly reaching up to ruffle her kinky, short blonde locks. Her cigarette was half smoked, and her brown eyes glared at her, lined with sloppy black eyeliner and cakey mascara. Pamela boldly went up to her, closer than ever, and began to speak reaching her hands toward the woman as she received visions of an event that had happened many years before…

* * *

 _1995_

" _You're going to give me a clean needle, I hope."_

 _The woman had invested an entire fifty dollar bill on injectable opioids as she sat in the hotel suite with the rugged young man, named Donovan, who had come to get his bi-hourly high. He had run out of heroin at his own place, and was now seeking out Sally, the woman, to satisfy this. They had known each other for a while, and they had hung out and injected smack together. Her yellowed teeth held a tape in place around her elbow to plump up the vein she was planning to stick the needle in. Once her dose was done with, she looked to Donovan and smirked as she held the needle out to him._

" _I'm the cleanest person in the world," she said with false sincerity._

 _Sally refilled the syringe and sat next to Donovan, who made himself comfortable by laying back on the bed. He let her administer his high, and as the fluid ran through one of his collapsed veins, he felt a rush as he felt his teeth gritting aggressively. He grunted and felt the room start to spin. Sally took out the needle when done and smiled down at him._

" _How do you feel?" she asked._

 _He nodded with a slight, dazed smile before feeling his eyes close during the ecstasy of the deadly substance._

BANG!

" _What did you give my son?!" a voice screamed._

 _Entering the room was a robust, much-older woman in her late forties—_ Pamela recognized her as Iris, the receptionist downstairs in the lobby _. She had forced the door open with her large size, and there was an extremely worried look on her face. Tears began to deluge in her tear ducts, and the moment she saw Donovan, her son, unconscious on the bed, she lost it._

" _NO!" she screamed as she ran toward the bed and began to cry on her son's chest—she felt the absence of a heartbeat against her cheek as she rested her head in the center of his torso._

" _Who said you could come in?" the addict asked meanly._

" _Call 911 now!" Iris begged tearfully. "Please!"_

" _I took the same shit as him and I'm_ more _than fine," Sally sneered. "I paid good money for this dope. China White. He's exactly where he wants to be right now. No one is calling_ anyone _."_

" _Please!"_

 _Sally began to walk away, ignoring Iris' pleading for help to revive her newly-dead son._

" _Oh god," Iris sobbed, "please, Donovan…please…oh no…"_

 _As soon as Sally slammed the door with the mature woman and her dead son on the bed, she walked down the hallway and into the billiard's room, where the windows were open with the white curtains blowing in the breeze. Walking closer to get a better view, she started to hum which then turned into lyrics:_

" _I had to find the passage back_

 _To the place I was before_

 _Relax, said the night man_

 _We are programmed to receive_

 _You can check out any time you like_

 _But you can never leave…_

 _Welcome to the Hotel Cali—"_

PUSH!

" _AHHHHHH!"_

 _Sally had begun screaming, seeing that the woman who had just lost her son to an overdose was livid and vengeful, having just pushed her out the window down many stories below. She kept screaming, her life flashing before her eyes even as her high wore off, accepting her fate as she splatted to the ground. Blood emanated from her mouth, and her ribs were beyond broken with fragments piercing her heart and lungs. Before long, blood was everywhere. Yet her eyes were open, lifeless and dead._

* * *

Pamela took her hands away from the woman in front of her, nearly crying at what she saw. Shaking her head, she looked at her.

"Y-You _killed_ that woman's son…" she wept softly, putting a finger to her eyes to wipe away the tears. "Why?"

"I didn't kill him."

"I…and…you…fell to your death. That lady was _very_ angry," Pamela added.

"No shit."

"Oh my god…"

Just when her tears began to fall from the vivid details seen in her visions of the ghost's past, Sally suddenly pointed her finger to the area behind Pamela.

"It's late," she said. "Go back to where you were. Behind you and to the right and then a left is Room 64."

When Pamela looked behind her, she nodded, but when she tried to thank the ghost of the addict, she was gone. Her blue-gray eyes widened again, sighing anxiously as she followed the directions given to her by the 'permanent resident' of the enigmatic hotel. She held her hand out to the wall of the hall, and when she got back, she saw the door to Room 64 was closed. Opening it, she shut it and rushed to the couch, plopping down only to notice John had woken up just minutes before and was looking at her worriedly.

"Where have you _been_? It's 4 AM," he asked.

"This place is fucking with my head, John. People have died here," Pamela answered nervously.

"I know," John said, "and that is why _we_ are here. To _investigate_."


	4. Chapter 3

_**\- chapter three -**_

Scrubbing toilets and dirty floors is no one's idea of fun, but Angela stuck it out in order to pay her bills. Even on sore hands and knees, she scrubbed everything as clean as she could. She had even laundered towels, and she noticed some had permanent, mysterious stains that had turned brown overtime. Even her uniform, a plain gray knee-length shift dress with an apron at the waist, had gotten dirty during the first three days alone. She had stayed one night shift, but it was a regular 6:00 evening release when she was carrying a cleaning cart through the lobby to overhear Iris, the receptionist and manager, discussing a shocking matter with Sally, the woman who had kinky blonde hair and slovenly clothing.

"We're going to be turned out on the streets," the older woman said.

"This is my home," Sally said. "They can't just take it from me."

"He hasn't even met the Countess yet."

 _Countess_ , Angela asked herself as she hid behind a pillar supporting many levels of balconies above.

"I can only imagine what she'll do to him," the addict said, wondering of the subject's fate in their conversation.

"I hope that lady doesn't see shit she isn't supposed to in their walk-through," Iris said. "I've been a little suspicious of her since she's started."

"Why haven't I met her?" Sally questioned, lighting a cigarette.

"You'll run into her eventually."

"But…why are you suspicious?" Sally repeated.

"I didn't even tell the Countess I hired her," Iris confessed. "If I did, she'd want her drained dry. I don't want her to up and leave because of what goes on in this place."

Angela was in a state of shock—what exactly did she mean by "drained dry"? And what exactly did she not want her knowing about?

"We can fix that. Want _me_ to get her?" Sally offered.

"No."

"She'll be pissed, you know," the addict added.

"I know I've been cranky with her, but she is nice," Iris said. "I wouldn't want _another_ young life wasted. I've always been a fan of the Swedes and their chocolate, but the other day, those damn children said she was gross."

Angela grimaced, looking off to the ceiling and gulping as a pang of nausea ripped through her stomach.

"That's because she was _dead_ ," Sally whispered; but she could not hear this part. Her whispers were too silent to make out. She stiffened up and grabbed the cart again, rolling it out into clear view and pretending to be on her way to another cleaning site in the ground level of the hotel. Sally looked at Angela as she walked, and when they made eye contact, the young woman felt a chill move up her spine that in turn gave her goose flesh. Iris' permanent glare was set on her, and she called out to her.

"Miss Saxon?" she asked.

"Uh… _yes_ , Iris?" Angela responded obediently.

"Put that damn cart to the side and take a break," she ordered. "Sit down."

"I…was just about to clean the bathroom down here," the young, attractive brunette said nervously with a nod.

"Nonsense," Iris objected. "Take a break. You've done enough. It's 5:30."

"I get out at six, though," Angela said.

"Don't argue with me. I'm your boss," Iris said firmly, "and I say take a break."

The young woman adjusted her hair, her dark waves in a neat ponytail, and took a breath—"fine."

Doing as instructed, Angela neatened her skirt and sat on one of the comfortably upholstered scarlet lounge chairs. She looked a bit uptight, her eyes narrowing at Iris, who just stared back intently as she came out from behind the counter and walked toward the young woman. Angela looked to see Sally lighting a fresh cigarette and walking off into an obscure hallway away from view. She turned her focus to Iris, who sat in the chair across from her and leaned forward, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes. The young woman boldly broke the awkward, morbid silence in the room.

"Have I done something wrong?" she questioned. "Is that why you are making me sit and have a break?"

"What?" the older woman asked. "No."

"Then…"

"You put too much pressure on yourself, girlie," Iris said rather casually. "Don't you ever stop and breathe?"

Angela was silent, looking down and sighing as she thought of something to say.

"You need to enjoy your life because you will never get that back. One day you will be on your deathbed asking where the time went," the older woman said.

"And why aren't _you_ happy, Iris?" Angela questioned, her feline-shaped eyes facing her direction. "Why don't you take your own advice?"

"I don't take my own advice, but I have seen…a young life go to waste because time stopped them in their place." Iris paused, and Angela remained silent. "But, I feel like time has stopped in this place a long time ago. I feel it will only be worse."

"Why?"

"Because the hotel has been bought out," Iris confessed. "They don't tell me shit."

"Wait," Angela said softly. "By who?"

"Some… _big_ New York fashion designer thinking he could be inspired by the West Coast. We'll be out on the streets. I've lived here since I've started working here," her boss explained.

"I-I'm sorry," Angela said; but the thought of a fashion designer living under the roof of the great penthouse at the highest floor made her feel great in so many ways.

"The current owner isn't too happy, either. Neither her nor my son," she said.

"You have a son?" The thought of Iris having a son surprised her—maybe that was why she always had a rigid, sour expression plastered to her face?

"Yes. I've worked here so I could be able to see him as much as possible," Iris detailed. "He's always spending too much time with Elizabeth. She is the owner of this place."

As Angela nodded, she heard the elevator ring as it descended the floors from the very top of the building. She looked to see a very well-dressed man in his late thirties, clad in a business casual suit with a pinstripe jacket and gray slacks with Italian leather loafers. Accompanying him were another man of unnatural pallor and a young boy who could easily be mistaken for a tomboyish girl with his long, scruffy brown hair. However, there was something about the other man that unsettled the attractive young woman—his dark hair was slicked back in a perfect pompadour, and he was in all black, his collar tightly buttoned beneath a dark coat spotted with slight leopard print. One of his hands was also gloved, and when she heard his voice, she felt even more uncomfortable.

"We will be back to sign the papers so that the hotel is officially bought," the well-dressed man said. "Lachlan and I are very happy to move in."

"This is nonsense. I hope you reconsider," the pale man said aggressively. "Where are a bunch of weirdos like us going to live, huh?"

"You'll find someplace. It's not the end of the world," the man said. "You are invited to the grand opening gala this Saturday. You and Elizabeth are welcome to come."

 _Elizabeth_ , Angela thought in her head. Something about that name sounded plain odd. As the man and his son walked out of the hotel, Iris got up out of her seat and approached the extremely pale man with dark, slick hair and an icy stare. He looked at her and stopped in his tracks.

"I can't believe they bought the hotel," she said. "We'll be tossed in the wind."

"Consider it a blessing, mom," the man, named Donovan, said. "You should have left this place _years_ ago."

"I'm here for you, Donovan," Iris said, "because I need to see you every day and know that you are alright." _Poor woman_ , Angela thought, _it's no wonder she's always so grumpy_.

"Give it up," he sneered, leaning down at her. "It's time to let go."

The rudeness displayed toward Iris by her son made Angela want to get up and talk some sense into him, but what made her feel like it was in her place to do so? It really was none of her business, but now she had a good understanding as to why Iris seemed to have such a rough exterior, if not gloomy and depressing. As Donovan went into the elevator, it rose up, and Iris sighed and looked at Angela, giving a dismissive hand gesture.

"You can leave for the night," she said with a sad tone in her voice. "In fact, have the day off tomorrow."

"What? But—"

" _Go_."

Her tone seemed demanding, but she stood up and looked at the older woman while trying to keep her gracious wits about her. Nodding her head, she walked toward the receptionist's desk. Before she could make it to where she left her bag and sweater, she heard Iris' voice.

"We will need you the night of the gala the new owner is holding. Three until midnight. Be here."

* * *

Due to their stay at the Hotel Cortez, John and Pamela could not help but get caught up in the hectic lobby, the location at which the grand opening gala held by the new owner, fashion designer Will Drake, was taking place. It was Saturday night, and there were already a hundred people easy at this event even though it had just begun.

"Wow, this is quite a bash," the police psychic enthused.

"Scarlett was supposed to be dropped off here," John said.

"Ugh," his partner groaned, rolling her blue-gray eyes. "This is _clearly_ an adult party. Why?"

"Be _cause_ , that's why."

"Well at least it'll give me some relief from earlier," she added. "When we got that package at the station, it scared me shitless."

" _You_ were the one who first suspected it wasn't a bomb," John reminded.

"Yes, but _you_ called the bomb squad and it got more complicated. Did you see how they were trying to keep me back from the package?" she recalled.

"Keep your eyes peeled for Scarlett," he instructed.

They came upon a well-dressed man in a black suit and tie, who was conversing with an attractive woman of color. She looked a bit too gaudy, wearing a thick, fringy poncho and bell-bottom jeans with a pair of brass-toned leather ankle boots. Her earrings were dangly and large, and she wore sunglasses which slightly pushed up her neat, straight black fringe. She was quite lovely in the face, her mauve lipstick neatly drawn to accentuate her Cupid's bow with just the right amount of contouring in her cheekbones.

"Uh, excuse me, sir," John said to the man. "I don't mean to crash the party, but have you seen my daughter? She was supposed to be dropped off here by my colleague."

"I see," the man said. "And what is your name, by chance?"

"John Lowe, detective," he said, extending his hand. "This here is my partner and colleague, Pamela Klein."

"I am Will Drake, new owner," the other man said cordially. "Pleasure to meet you."

"And I am Claudia Bankson, Vogue magazine," the woman of color said.

" _Vogue_?" Pamela asked, her jaw nearly dropping. "Wow!"

"Yes, I've been the editor for three years now."

"You must have seen the world, then." Pamela was still so shocked that she was standing in the presence of a big-wig in the fashion industry—no, two.

"Yes. Paris, Milan, New York…" Claudia smiled. "Say, you are dressed in a very…uh… _interesting_ manner, to say the least."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, that geometric skirt and that blouse are _quite_ the combination," the Vogue editor said.

"Thank you!" Pamela exclaimed.

"Daddy?" asked the voice of a little girl.

John, Claudia, Will and Pamela turned to see young Scarlett holding the hand of a police officer suited in black with a crisp white shirt and tie. The detective crouched down and let his daughter run to him, holding her for a moment but for dear life before letting her go. Pamela just looked at them, sighing complacently.

"How's my little girl?" he asked sweetly.

"Guess what?" she asked with excitement. "Officer Pettibone let me run the siren!"

"Oh, he knows better," John laughed.

"She hit a triple at recess, actually," the policeman accompanying her said.

"Aw, that's my girl," John said proudly as his light blue eyes looked down at his daughter's identical ones. He turned to the police officer and nodded. "Thank you, Carl."

"My pleasure."

Scarlett looked up at Will and smiled, noticing the merriment and noise around her—"do you live here?"

"It doesn't always look like this, actually. But yes, sweetie, I'll be living here very soon," Will said with a smile.

"Is this a party?" the girl questioned, adjusting the headband on the crown of her light blonde head.

"Yes, and you and your father are welcome to join in on the fun. As well as Pamela, here," Will said with a wink to the bohemian-dressed woman, who nodded and cocked an eyebrow up.

"I'm sorry, sir, but Scarlett and I have some plans," John said politely.

"And this is an _adult_ party," Pamela reminded Will.

"My son is actually here," the designer said in turn.

"Oh, please? Daddy, can we stay? I want to! _Please_?" Scarlett begged, tugging on the suit jacket her father was wearing.

Just then, a young boy came forward and smiled—he could have easily been mistaken for a tomboyish girl with his scruffy, long brown hair, and he was wearing a skater boy's outfit with Vans for footwear. His blank blue eyes looked at Scarlett, but then up to Will, who introduced him as his son.

" _This_ here is my son, Lachlan. Lachlan, meet Scarlett," he said.

"Hello," the boy said.

"Oh darn," Claudia suddenly said. "One of my models cancelled her appearance tonight in the fashion show."

"Oh no," Will said nervously, "what are we going to do? Could we maybe find someone else?"

"Don't look at me," Pamela sassed, putting her palm to her chest. "I don't model."

When she looked away from the small group she was with, she saw a familiar face in the distance—it was Sally, the woman with kinky bleach blonde hair, sloppy dark makeup, and a cameo choker wearing a dark purple dress and black coat over it. She seemed to be crying hysterically, looking at the man who held the list of select guests invited to the gala.

"Come on!" she shouted. "I need to be on this list! I live here!"

"I'm sorry, but your name is not on here," Pamela heard the man say forcefully. "Maybe next time, miss. Security?"

Sally became tearful, even as her arms were being gripped by two bouncers who were maintaining safety at the event.

"Why am I not on the list?" she cried out. "I _live_ here! This is my home! My _house_! Come on, man!" She looked to the men on either side of her and repeatedly ranted; "GET OFF ME! LET ME GO!"

She seemed to be in an empathic trance seeing Sally's ghost cry out. She could have sworn her ghost had seen her amongst the elite and famous, dressed in vintage bohemian clothing. She smiled sadly at her, even as she looked to be dragged out by the two strong men. Tears streamed from her face and made her makeup look even sloppier. But how was it that they could see her ghost? Pamela was able to see her a few nights before, and knowing of her past, she felt bad—until the shy, cordial voice of a young woman caught her attention.

"Uh…champagne, miss?"

Pamela turned her eyes to see a fair-skinned, attractive young woman with dark brown waves tied back in a neat ponytail. She wore a more modern maid's uniform, different from the one she had seen on Miss Evers, and it was clean and unstained. The police psychic looked into her distinctive, feline-shaped cerulean eyes as she took in the softness of her face and then the shininess of the platter holding six unserved champagne glasses. Yet there was something about her; it was not unsettling like Sally or Miss Evers, but it was causing a familiar emotional pain.

"Uh…yes, thank you," she said, taking one. As the young woman walked away, Pamela leaned in toward Claudia and pointed to her.

"Say, you said you needed another model?" she asked.

"Uh, yes?" the Vogue editor asked.

"Go and get _her_ ," Pamela said, pointing at the dark-haired hotel maid. "I have this feeling—"

"A _maid_?" Claudia scoffed. "Are you kidding me?"

"No, I'm not." Pamela said. "I say you should."

"Why?"

"Because I believe…no wait, I _know_ her face screams 'model,'" Pamela said, pointing down at the maid's legs. "Look at the gams on that girl. Hell, she probably could use a confidence boost. I'd feel pretty bad if I was stuck in a maid's outfit around big-wigs."

"Say…" Will said, looking to where the police psychic was pointing. "I have a piece _perfect_ for that frame."

"Will, only the _best_ of the world's models can walk our runways!" Claudia stated.

"And maybe the best thing is right in front of us," the designer said. "I want you to follow her. The moment she stops in the bathroom or somewhere, you tell her she is needed, you hear me? I'm telling you that as the _owner_ of this hotel and the _host_ of this party and fashion show."

"Fine."

As Claudia walked casually to follow the attractive, dark-haired maid, John looked at Pamela with a confused look, shrugging.

"What the hell did you tell her?" he asked.

"I knew she'd do it," Pamela said. "She needed a new model, so I found her one."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Claudia had finally stopped following the maid when she took a bathroom break to freshen up her hair and do her business. Claudia was watching her through the crack of a stall, sighing in front of the sink set and large mirror. It was just then that she finally got a good look at her face; this maid was indeed attractive, and if anything, reminded her of Cara DeLevigne. Out of the blue, she flushed the toilet, pretending to go as she opened the door and walked to the sink right next to her.

"My, you're a sight for sore eyes, miss. Enjoying your night of work?" Claudia asked, pumping some sweet-smelling foamy soap into her hands.

"It's paying my bills," the dark-haired maid said. "I can't complain. It's okay I guess."

"You should be doing something you love, not scrubbing toilets," the Vogue editor said. "What's your name?"

"Why?"

"Introductions."

After a long pause, the maid straightened the skirt of her uniform and sighed—"Angela."

"Well, hello, Angela." She tore a paper towel from the dispenser and dried her hands, reaching to shake the maid's hand. "I am Claudia Bankson, Vogue magazine."

 _Vogue?_ Angela was incredulous—what were the odds of meeting such a figure in the fashion industry at her work? She turned a sickly pale, in shock over what was happening—was this going to erase any reservations put into her head about modelling after being laid off?

"Vogue…uh… _for real_?"

"Yes. I'm the editor, and have been for three years," she said. "A-Are you okay?"

"No, I'm fine, just…in _shock_!" she said with a sudden flash of her pearly whites. "I...I…never expected…phew…this is an honor…"

"No need," Claudia laughed. "In fact, a lady here, she is guest, she actually told me to talk to you. I have a dilemma."

"A dilemma?"

"Yes. One of my models cancelled her appearance tonight. Will and I have no replacement," the Vogue editor said. "The show is in exactly ten minutes. Please say you'll take her place?"

Angela was in shock—was this a miracle? Was this woman, the editor of one of the world's most prominent fashion magazines, really requesting her to be model even if she was only a replacement? It was so surprising to her, especially since she had only been in front of a camera with backdrops dressed in the latest fashions, never strutting on a runway. She was speechless, to say the least.

"I…I'm speechless," she said. "Are you sure? Me?"

"Why?" Claudia asked, "are you nervous? Stage fright?"

"N-No," Angela fibbed, her voice elevating in pitch and speed. "I…I'd love to."

"Come with me. Quick. Let's get you out of that uniform. Will has the perfect outfit for you to model."

While hiding from anyone affiliated with the hotel faculty, Claudia scurried Angela through the crowd rapidly in order to get her to the door leading to the backstage dressing area of the fashion show. After a pulling back a short series of black curtains, the young brunette gasped to see several models with their makeup being done by artists. Males and females alike had top-of-the-line-quality foundation and other bases applied to their faces, and Claudia snapped her fingers.

"Lorenzo?" she called out to a rather effeminate male makeup artist. " _Pronto._ "

"Ah, _si_ , _che faccia bella_ ," the man said, taking Angela's hand and leading her to an empty seat to sit her down.

The job was rather quick, but the first thing the man started with was her hair—her dark brown waves were turned to sleek, straight locks that made her look almost unrecognizable aside from dark blue eyeshadow, winged eyeliner, pink lipstick, and mauve blush in the hollows of her cheekbones. She had already been wearing foundation, so that was not an issue at all.

The outfit she was given by one of the wardrobe girls was one of Will Drake's designs; it consisted of a pantsuit that was strapless, made of raven black fabric and cinched at the waist with a satin faux belt of ribbon with a bow in front. The strapless top part was a sweetheart neckline but with a half t-shirt beneath it, and the shoes provided were a pair of peep-toe booties with a cage pattern on the side. Looking in the mirror at herself, she smiled with Claudia behind her.

"You look _stunning_! I knew this would be the perfect design for you to model!" she exclaimed.

"W-Will my boss find out? You know, that I'm on the runway when I should be serving drinks?"

"God no," the Vogue editor said. "In fact, I barely can recognize you from what you looked like wearing that rag of a uniform."

Claudia then looked to a colleague—"where is Tristan?"

"Over there."

Angela caught sight of the man she was trying to locate. He was young, about in his mid-twenties and looked rougher around the edges than a serrated knife. His black hair was dyed red at the tips and spiked in a mullet, shaved close at the sides of his head. He was wearing a patterned jacket of red and black paisley, a design of Will's, with black slacks and matching shoes. She also noticed he was hunched over on the vanity table. When he finally looked up at the mirror, Angela noticed him snort through one nostril—he had been snorting lines of cocaine after taking a few stimulant pills.

"Is _that_ Tristan?" Angela questioned quietly in a whisper—apparently, he turned to glance at her; she was not intending to be too loud at all.

"Yeah," Claudia said. "Will booked him. With him, you can expect quite an… _unorthodox_ performance on stage. He's definitely got a rock star image."

"I can see."

But she could also see that from the handsome, rugged model's nose dropped a bit of blood and right on the front tie of the outfit he was modelling. The makeup artist grabbed a tissue and handed it to him.

"Uh, Mr. Duffy?"

"What?" His voice was deep and crude.

"Your nose…y-you have—"

"Ah, I don't give a shit," Tristan droned under his breath as he snatched the tissue and wiped it briskly. "Let's do this."

When he got up, Angela watched his every move diligently. Was she concerned for his safety after having snorted cocaine, or was she afraid of him and what he might do with unguarded inhibitions? She observed the way he walked, noticing his masculine swagger as he swayed his arms away from his torso. He seemed to make eye contact with her from the distance he was at, and she was immediately repulsed by the gesture he made with his two forefingers parted with his tongue in between. When she saw Tristan smirk, her jaw dropped and she scoffed disgustedly. Claudia tapped the young woman's shoulder and smirked, catching her attention.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

Angela nodded nervously—"oh, uh…yes."

* * *

"This is my first fashion show," John said with a blush of embarrassment. Claudia had made it back in time to grab a good seat in the audience, and it happened to be right next to John and Pamela.

"My millionth," Claudia joked.

John then heard Lachlan, Will's son, say something to his daughter—"maybe I will show you something cool later."

"I wouldn't," Pamela said, interrupting them. "You're staying with your father."

"But—"

"Pamela?" John intervened. "It's okay. I'll take care of it."

Right before the fashion show was to begin, Pamela's blue-gray eyes had wandered the vicinity until her eyes settled on a couple illuminated by one of the spotlights at the end of the row on the other side. The man had icy, pale skin with even icier light blue eyes, his brown hair slicked back in a neat pompadour, and he was dressed entirely in black, even his shirt and tie. He was quite handsome, but the woman caught Pamela's attention more—she was flawless, her skin smooth and as white as marble. Her hair, a rich platinum, seemed to merge into her skintone, and it was tied up in an updo and topped with a hat adorned with a huge feather hanging over her face. Her gown was made of sparkly silver lamé and gathered at the waist to expose blood-red tights and pumps beneath a hi-lo skirt. Her jewelry looked to be very costume with bright red ruby-like jewels set into a metal framework around her neck. She was beautiful, but there was something about her gaze that was dark and unworldly, yet familiar all at the same time. Had she seen her before? To be friendly, Pamela smiled at her, but saw the woman look away as she read her and the man's lips.

"There are the two cops who moved into Room 64," she saw the man say.

"The cops don't bother me," the woman replied, looking back at the man and kissing his cheek. "The man sure is handsome, though." _John_ , Pamela thought, knowing who they were referring to.

"So you _do_ have a type," the man said scornfully.

"Oh, please," the pale, vampy woman said. "We're so bored with each other. We need some excitement, and quite frankly, we just might get it."

"What do you mean?" Pamela saw the man question.

"The man we sold the hotel to booked Tristan Duffy tonight for the runway. He's got a reputation," the woman said, "so we'll see how he does tonight with this modelling gig."

And that is when the fashion ensued—both John and Pamela, along with Lachlan, Scarlett, and Claudia eyed the unique designs crafted by Will Drake. Male and female models strutted their stuff, alternating turns. John seemed quite bored with this event already, until a model wearing a white half t-shirt beneath the sweetheart neckline of a form-fitting pantsuit caught his eye. He noticed that her eyes were turned downward to pay attention to her walking while she modelled the outfit chosen for her. Claudia clapped, as she was rather impressed with how beautiful she looked in her outfit. Her sleek, straightened dark chocolate waves seemed to flow nicely behind her as she walked. When she got the end of the runway, she looked back and saw all of those people—eyeing Claudia in the audience, Angela froze like a deer in the headlights.

" _Strike a pose_ ," she saw her mouth quickly, thumbs slightly up as if she were ready to show approval.

And she elevated her hip and put a hand on it, smiling as she made her way back to the beginning to the runway.

"That was our replacement," Claudia whispered to John, noticing his eyes keen on her. "Angela is her name."

"How'd you get her so quickly?" he asked.

"I helped, remember?" Pamela reminded, tapping the side of her partner's arm.

"You sure did. You may see _her_ on covers one day," Claudia smiled.

As soon as Angela made it behind the backstage curtain, she looked to see the featured male model, Tristan Duffy, make his way out onto the runway. She was shocked, as was the audience, at the antics he was pulling. First, he took the champagne glass of the vampy woman in white and drank it as he kept strutting his stuff down the path. Once he finished it, he smashed the flute against the floor and held out his arms as if to say "come-at-me-bro". What came next shocked everyone—as he was coming back to the beginning of the runway, he leaned down and forcefully grabbed the back of a woman's head, crashing his lips onto hers at her husband's anger. The husband pushed Tristan off his wife, and in turn, he forced his lips onto him as well at risk of being punched in the face. Angela's jaw was dropped— _that is the most revolting thing I have ever seen_ , she thought to herself.

When the fashion show came to an end, Claudia approached Angela backstage—the young woman had gotten back into her maid uniform and tied her hair back, removing any evidence of the fashion show off her face. The Vogue editor smiled at her, looking at her with a grin larger than life.

"Angela? Is that your name? Right?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes."

"Oh my god, that was… _wow_! You're a natural! Was that your first runway?" she asked.

"Well… _yes_ …i-it was. Yes."

"And have ever modelled before?"

 _This is going to really big_ , Angela thought to herself, _no more scrubbing toilets for me_.

"Y-Yes," she said. "I have."

"Which agency?"

"Uh…it recently went bankrupt. I worked there three years," the young woman said.

"Well, you may just find yourself on the cover of my magazine one day. _Vogue_. Picture it."

Then she held out a card—"here is my contact. Have a lovely night, Angela."

As she walked away, the young woman realized that all of her dreams were about to come true. After years spent on perfecting herself, this was the moment she was waiting for—a real modelling career with a huge name in the fashion industry, modelling creations by McQueen, Vera Wang, Chanel and other big-name designers. Looking down at the digits on the card, she was speechless—what was a girl to do?


	5. Chapter 4

**_\- chapter four -_**

Late that night, Pamela was tossing and turning in the bed next to John's. The truth of the matter was that she was having dreams of a prophetic nature; yet these were different from the ones she usually had. These were actually quite disturbing—she got images and visions of the vampy lady in white and, even more twisted, a few children with stark pale skin and hair as platinum as hers, blood covering their lips as if they were little demons spawned out of hell. Yet, one of the children stuck out.

When she jerked up from her sleep, she rubbed her eyes and got right out of bed, her socks hitting the floor as she felt the instinctive need to leave Room 64. Her intuition and psychic powers seemed to be pulling on her, controlling her like a marionette in a puppet show. She went with the flow, putting her hand on the wall to aid her. These children in her dreams were here—when meeting John for the first time, she was able to sense the woman in her visions at the time, but now having seen her for real, it all made sense. She was doing something with these children, and she was going to rely on her powers to have her find out.

She was no longer groggy from sleep, but the moment she heard the sound of giggling children, she knew that her dreams were true. She followed it, going down the endless hallways until she came upon a wall—no doors, no arches, no form of entry whatsoever. Pamela, confused, put both hands to the door, allowing it to move slightly. Gasping, she pushed it with more force, opening it to a strange, obscure room that was blinding—extra large computer screens showing Tetris were on full display with game consoles in front of them, and there was a circle of leather seats arranged in a couch to face these screens. On one of them, she could immediately recognize Scarlett, John's daughter, with one of the pale-skinned, platinum haired children.

"See?" Scarlett said, holding out a photograph of her father, mother, and brother Holden as she pointed to each person depicted. "This is me, this is you, and this is our mom and dad. Don't you remember?"

 _Holden_ , the police psychic thought with shock—her visions when meeting John were right!

"You're different now," the pale-skinned child said to Scarlett.

"I grew up since then," the girl said, "but why haven't _you_?"

There was no answer from the boy; Pamela could not stay quiet any longer—"Scarlett!"

Her voice was sharp, penetrating the air as the girl and her brother turned to face her, seeing her arms crossed across her chest.

"Uh…hello, I forget your name," the girl said.

"It's Miss Klein to _you_ ," Pamela said haughtily. "What are you doing here at this hour? Your dad will be worried _sick_!"

"Miss Klein, this is Holden," Scarlett argued. "He's my brother. We thought he was dead. He's _here_! I found him!"

Nodding, the police psychic walked closer to get a better view of the child. When she crouched in front of the children, her and Holden's eyes met, and it was official that he was the child she had seen wandering the hallways and leading her extremely astray from the path to Room 64. His eyes were as icy as the man seen with the vampy woman, and she looked at Scarlett for reassurance before feigning a smile at the seemingly ageless boy—she disliked kids.

"Uh…Holden?" she asked, catching his full attention. "W-We need to get you home. Back to your mommy and daddy. They'll be happy to see you."

"This is my home," Holden said chillingly. "I am happy here."

"Holden, you were _taken_ away from your mommy and daddy. They miss you, and they want you with _them_ ," Pamela replied, a bit more authoritative this time.

"You can visit whenever you like," Holden said to Scarlett, "but no adults allowed. You came in. You didn't ask."

"I don't _need_ to ask," Pamela said, losing her patience.

"Miss Klein?" Scarlett asked. "Take a picture of us, so you can show my dad when you see him again."

Just when she took out her phone and put it on camera mode, she tapped the screen to get it into focus. But she watched the two get close for a photo, and suddenly, Holden got aggressive—he opened his mouth and grabbed his sister's arm, making her shriek slightly. Pamela snapped the picture quickly and put her phone away to attend to Scarlett.

"Ow! Holden!" she shouted. "That hurt!"

His face was blank and emotionless, and Pamela grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her away from the couch, out of the room faster than wildfire. When the secret passageway closed, she crouched to see where Holden had tried to hurt her, but there weren't any marks left by his teeth or hands.

"That's weird," she muttered. "That was your _brother_? What the _hell_ have they been _doing_ to him?"

"I don't know," Scarlett said. "We need to see my dad. I stayed. That boy Lachlan showed me something, but I can't tell anyone."

"You _will_ tell me, Scarlett. I'm a police lady. You don't _lie_ or _keep secrets_ from police," Pamela said forcefully. "Now, show me what he showed you. Right now."

The little girl was reluctant, but something intimidated her about Pamela, so she simply complied and the woman followed her, passing through endless hallways again before coming up to a doorway leading to an endless stairwell that resembled a fire escape. They kept going down the stairs, and by the time they were halfway down the flights, Pamela's legs began to feel tired. Walking upon walking, stairs upon stairs, and all until they finally reached the bottom; there was another door that, when opened, lead to a blind white room that had height marks at three feet, six feet, eight feet, and so forth, as if it were once a swimming pool. What Scarlett led her to almost made her draw back in fear.

There were five or six glass coffins lined with white velvet and big enough for a child to sleep in— _the horror_ , Pamela thought to herself as her jaw dropped.

"You can't tell anyone about this," Scarlett warned.

"Too late for that kid," Pamela snided, taking out her phone and snapping a photo of the empty glass coffins—Scarlett suddenly got angry and tried to snatch the phone away from the woman; her high-pitch seemed to echo through the strange room.

"NO! I told you to keep this secret!" she shouted.

"Get off me, you little brat!" Pamela screeched.

"No! Delete the picture!"

"No! I'm showing your father!" the woman said, struggling to get her arm away from the little girl.

 _Hehehehe…_

The two quieted to the sound of giggling children—"did you hear that?"

"Yeah," Pamela said under her breath. "We better shut up and get out."

"Delete the—"

" _Shut up_!" the woman hissed, grabbing the girl's arm. "We're going to get caught! C'mon!"

The two booked it out of the room and up the stairs as if running for dear life, not looking back as Scarlett led them back to the hallway they were in before with the secret passageway into the mysterious, stark-white playroom. One they were surrounded by the endless halls again, they walked their way to Room 64 only to find that John was missing; even stranger, at that hour of the night.

* * *

Truth is, Alex had called John frantically wondering about the whereabouts of their daughter, as she had not arrived home with the accompanying cop as promised.

He rushed to the house, unfazed that Pamela, too, was gone from the hotel room. Now, they were at his permanent residence with a few of his colleagues—Alex was having an anxious fit.

"If you could just ask Wendy if she can think of anything, anything she may have said or if she saw her with someone," the blonde wife said frantically.

"Calm down, ma'am," the officer said. "She will be found."

Meanwhile, John was on the phone, also frantic and worried beyond belief as he tried to operate his laptop for remote screen viewing.

"Why can't I patch in to the cameras downtown from my laptop here at home?" he asked. When he got an answer, he was displeased; "but she's been gone for _hours_! That's a long time when a psycho has your private number! I last saw her in the hotel! I was called home by my wife, I'm here at home now!"

Luckily, Pamela had phoned up a cab service, which came immediately to get her and John's young daughter to bring her to the safety of her own home. They walked in through the front door, passing the officers and Alex, and saw John on the phone intent on finding his daughter.

"Dad?" the girl said, catching his attention with a sigh of relief on his part.

"Oh, my God!" John exclaimed as he collected his daughter in his arms tightly, continuing to sigh with relief. "Where have you been? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did somebody take you?"

"I was with Lachlan," Scarlett said. "He showed me around and I—"

"Don't you EVER leave your father's sight again, Scarlett!" Alex raged tearfully. "Do you hear me?!"

"I was with Miss Klein, she found me!" the girl argued back.

John looked at Pamela, turning his attention to his partner before looking at Scarlett, his hands on her sides and his eyes looking into hers.

"Jesus Christ, you were alone the _whole_ time?" John asked with disbelief.

"No, dad," Scarlett said. "I wanted to see if it was really him, and he was there. I wanted to see him, and surprise you."

"See who?"

"Holden."

Alex's heart sank, and John looked at his daughter with disbelief, shaking his head and shaking her a bit as he emphasized his speech.

"Holden…h-he's dead," her father said.

"No he's not," Pamela cut in. "Don't lie to that kid's face anymore. I saw him, too, with my _own_ eyes, and before that, too."

There was a silence in the room; everyone present, including the Lowes and the other officers. She was quick to answer—"what? You think you could get away with not _believing_ me?"

"I was talking to him. I showed him a picture, and—"

" _No_!" John said through gritted teeth. "Holden is dead, Scarlett! He is _not_ coming back! Do you _hear_ me?! _Stop it_!"

"She's not lying," Pamela intervened.

"Shut up!" Alex shouted. "Don't tell me what my daughter is capable of. I _know_ my kid."

"Do you really?" the police psychic asked. "Hell, I _hate_ kids, but I still treat them better than _you_."

"Miss Klein has a picture! Show them!"

"With pleasure."

The police psychic took out her smartphone and went to her photo gallery, showing him the most recent photo taken of Holden and Scarlett. Both Alex and John gasped at the screen, but saw that their abducted son was blurred out by his motion toward his sister at the time. Scarlett suddenly expressed her anger at her parent's lies to her about her brother's abduction, looking at them both with hatred.

"You lied to me! _Both_ of you! You said Holden was dead, and he's alive! I spoke to him!"

Scarlett ran away from the scene, up to her room as tears rolled down her smooth, pink cheeks. Pamela squirmed, looking at Alex and John as they spoke to each other—John's wife was clearly crying, and whatever was left over from the anxiety of the moment.

"I can't believe you made me go through that _again_ , you son of a bitch," the woman said to her husband.

"You think Holden was _my_ fault?" John asked, pointing to himself. "Are you _serious_? Do you even _know_ how much a damper his disappearance has put on _me_ , too? Do you even _care_?"

"No, I…I'm tired," Alex said under heavy sobs as she left the room. "I need to go to bed."

As soon as she walked away from both he and Pamela, the two law enforcement officers looked at each other and exchanged a moment of pity. She shook her head, not even being able to imagine the pain they go through everyday, and the stress they have endured since Holden was taken from them. She walked to him, seeing him clearly distressed, and snuck past him into the kitchen to get him a glass of water.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine."

"You don't seem it. I knew you would be scared about Scarlett," Pamela said.

"You know, for someone who hates kids, you're not bad with handling them," he replied, taking a sip of the water. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Bringing her back to safety. I appreciate it so much, Pamela," he said with gratitude.

"I was just doing my job," she reminded him. "I was also doing my job taking those pictures."

"There was more than one?" he asked briskly. "And did you really see Holden?"

"Yes. He is in that hotel, John."

"Jesus."

"Here," she said, taking out her phone and swiping left on the screen to reveal the picture of the child-sized glass coffins. "We found these down in the lower part of the building. I told Scarlett to show me what Lachlan showed her."

" _Lachlan_ showed her these? What the hell…" John trailed off in disbelief, stroking the dark stubble on the bottom half of his face. "What the _hell_ are these?"

"Coffins," she assumed, "well, that's my best guess. I think that pale woman from the fashion show has something to do with it. The minute I saw her…I knew she was from my visions. Keeping children in coffins…that's _twisted_. Holden looked like he was eternally scared shitless. Scarlett noticed he hadn't gotten any older."

John thought long and hard of what she was saying, looking at the glass cases fit for a child in the screen of Pamela's phone.

"I think we have a real case on our hands, John. This is literally unfolding before us. I can _see_ it." She paused. "But…what are we going to do? That's your son in that hotel."

"I'll take care of it," John said, "and you obviously have helped. I'm starting with those who work at the hotel."

* * *

The next day, John kept true to his word—he was going to get to the bottom of his son's disappearance as well as solve the case surrounding the mysterious hotel murders in the Los Angeles area. When he returned to the hotel that morning, he stopped to see a familiar, beautiful dark-haired maid pushing a cart full of dirtied towels across the lobby to the laundry room on that floor.

John gasped to see that it was Angela, the one who substituted for the model Claudia lost the night before at the fashion show. He stopped, and when they made eye contact, she stopped in her tracks and looked back at him with a closed smile that was more shy and reserved than cordial. Her dark, chocolate-colored hair was back in waves, up and away from her lovely face. Her feline-like blue eyes seemed to attract him toward her like a magnet, and even though she was dressed plainly, he recognized the long legs and her pear-like physique from the night before.

"Uh, excuse me?" he asked the young woman. "Do you work here?"

"Uh…um…y-yes sir," she said nervously.

"I'm Detective John Lowe, LAPD," he said, showing his badge to the lovely young maid. "And you are…?"

"Why? I-Is there something wrong, officer?"

"I need to find the manager, or whoever runs this place," John said. "I am _not_ happy."

"Is there something _I_ can do for you?" she asked gingerly, alternating her eye contact with the rather handsome detective with black hair and blue eyes dressed in a gray suit and black tie.

"Get me the manager, unless _you_ are her," he requested.

"Is someone looking for me?"

John turned his head—it was Iris, the hotel receptionist with a permanent scowl on her face, large horn-rimmed glasses, and a vest over a pattern white and red shirt. Her hair looked to be freshly trimmed, and she happened to be wearing a peculiar shade of light red lipstick. Even Angela was in shock at this— _she never wears makeup_ , she thought. Iris noticed the frustration on John's face, and made a remark.

"C'mon, cowboy," she said. "Rough day?"

"No," he said, letting his anger seethe through his teeth like venom from a serpent. "I'm the angry father whose daughter you let roam these halls today. There's not a thing that goes on in this place that _you_ don't know about, which makes _you_ an accessory."

"To what?" Iris asked; Angela was just plain confused.

"Excuse me, officer but…I'm confused," the young woman said. "Can you tell me what's going on?"

"Don't pretend you don't know, missy," John said—Angela's jaw nearly dropped, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I beg your pardon!" she forced from her soft, naturally-rosy lips.

"What's this all about?" Iris asked, feeling him turn her back to him toward the nearest column.

"Murder, maybe kidnapping." Then came the sound of handcuffs. "I'm done playing."

"Officer!" Angela exclaimed. "Stop it, _right_ now! Iris did _not_ do anything wrong! I've been here all morning and—"

"Aren't you gonna frisk me first?" Iris questioned, her back facing John as he fastened the cuffs around her wrists. "Hell, it's been a long time since a man spun me around like that. If I was any younger, I'd even _enjoy_ the cuffs.

"Oh, you're not gonna enjoy this," the detective hissed, "believe me. Not until you start telling me everything that's going on in this place."

Angela was silent, at least until John went up to her and took out a second pair of handcuffs, spinning her around against the column as well—yet she was struggling.

"Get off me!" she shouted. "Unhand me, you _pig_!"

"You work here. You _must_ know something!" John said forcefully. "I'm taking you _both_ into custody and for questioning."

"You have _no_ right!" the young woman said. "Get these cuffs off me _right_ now."

"I can't do that. You're an accessory as well."

"No I'm _not_ , and you damn right know it!" Angela spat. "Get me out of these!"

"You've seen things," Iris cut in.

"You know I have," the detective came back with.

"Look, before you have to explain to somebody what you think you're charging me with, why don't you take these bracelets off of me?" Iris suggested.

"No," John said.

"At least read us our _rights_ first, you moron," Angela said sharply.

John looked at the young woman, captivated by her attractive, soft features that were now fuming with anger and frustration at him. Her dark brown waves, in a neat ponytail, cascaded down her back, and her wrists were still kept in place by the cuffs. She did have a point—after all, he was angry because he knew his son Holden was alive and being kept within the walls of the hotel. It screwed up his sense of rationality and he had neglected to read them their Miranda rights before being cuffed. He took a breath, thinking if it was even necessary to cuff the young maid.

"Yeah, cowboy," Iris said. "I know that look. Look, why don't you take just _me_? She's got a point. You didn't even read _me_ my rights."

John just stared at her coldly, his blue eyes turning icy and frigid as she continued.

"Let the young lady go. She's new here," the older woman said persuasively. "Take me. _I_ can tell you what you need to know. She's useless to you in your case." Her voice became a quiet whisper as she watched John make his way to Angela. "C'mon. Let her go."

 _Cha-clink!_

John had unfastened Angela's cuffs to free her wrists from the cuffs, and the young woman immediately grimaced as she felt pain caused by the marks left from the cuffs. She rubbed them, looking at the officer angrily and with aggravation.

"I'm so sorry, miss," he said with sincerity. "I didn't mean to waste your time."

"You should be," Angela whispered forcefully.

"But Angela," Iris said, still cuffed, "you should _still_ come with us anyway. There's something you must know about this place that I've neglected to inform you about."

There was a confused look on her face, and though she was quite mad at the policeman who wrongly cuffed her and caused her distress, she could not help but admit to herself that he was easy on the eyes.

"Where to?" John asked.

"Well, if you're looking to buy drinks for two ladies," she said, "let's get these bracelets off me and go to the bar upstairs, hm? I'll tell you everything you need to know, cowboy."

* * *

"I want to know what's going on in this place," John demanded, the bottle of liquor in front of he, Iris and Angela—the maid was the only one who had not touched the bottle, but instead opted for a glass of water with lemon. Iris already poured shots for she and the detective, and scoffed at the beverage Angela had chosen. Yet she was giving into her own vices—smoking in front of the two of them.

"Angela, you know you have to be outdoors to smoke," the receptionist warned.

The maid seemed indifferent, not a care in the world as she blew out the smoke from her freshly-lit cigarette into the air.

"Anyways," Iris said, ignoring Angela's disobedience, "officer, if you want to know what this place is about, you have to know about the man who built it. His name was James Patrick March."

"And…when was this?" John asked—Angela just listened and smoked as she drank her refreshing beverage.

"He put atom of evil in his being into building this hotel. He was a self-made man, making his fortune off oil and coal, but because he was new money, he shunned by the elites of East Coast society. So he came west, to a land where pedigree meant little if you had a lot of dough. Here he would build a monument to excess and opulence, where he could satisfy his own _peculiar_ appetites."

"Which were…?" Angela asked silently, rubbing her fingertip around the top of her glass.

"Well, let's just say he wasn't just building the finest hotel Los Angeles had ever seen," Iris said, capturing both of their attentions. "It was a perfectly designed torture chamber. An engineered alibi. Secret chutes and rooms to hide and dispose of the bodies. Hallways with no exits. Walls were lined with asbestos so they could mute the screams. People walked in, and vanished. No one checked out of here when Mr. March was alive. 'No body, no crime,' he would say."

It was at that moment, Angela crashed her forehead into her hands, which were propped up by her elbows on the bar on either side of the water with lemon. She began to worry, feeling anxiety rush through her body like adrenaline for a flight-or-fight response. She could not believe this—no wonder they were desperate for a new maid! Fear for her life ensued, but Iris continued her explanation for the benefit of the detective, who sipped his liquor and paid close attention.

"No one knows how many died," she said. "Rumor has it he averaged three a week. A lot more if he went on a bender."

"Oh my god," Angela said with worry. "I…I…"

"Don't whine, just listen," Iris said, continuing her story.

"Did he get caught?" John asked.

"Just listen, I'm getting to that." She cleared her throat and finished her swig of alcohol. "He was sloppy with his wet work out in the world. They say somebody turned him in. No one knows who, but I'm betting on the wife. With him gone, she got everything. All those millions. The cops went in the room to find that Mr. March had slit his own throat after shooting his loyal maid."

"This is unreal," the detective said, shaking his head and glancing over at Angela to see the anguish in her face; she was biting her lower lip to prevent from breaking down in front of them.

"No, this place _is_ the real deal," Iris said affirmatively. "If you want to know what's _really_ going on here, you're going to have to open your mind a bit, huh?"

"I've worked on almost every kind of case. Robbery, assault, murder," John explained with disbelief, "but nothing like _this_. Nothing committed by a ghoul or ghost. People do enough damage without help from the afterlife."

"The room you are staying in, Room 64, that was Mr. March's office," the receptionist added as she stood up and paid the tab to Liz, the drag queen behind the counter. "If this building has a heart, it is _that_ room and it is blacker than the ace of spaces."

"Thank you for your time," John said— _but she knows nothing of my son's whereabouts_ , he thought.

When Iris left, Angela put out her old cigarette and lit up a new one, dragging back as she puffed out the smoke. John looked at her with worry, seeing her tag continuous, long drags as she sipped from her citrus water. She was completely silent, but definitely not indifferent. She was scared, to say the least.

"Angela? Is that your name?" the detective asked.

"Don't talk to me," she ordered.

"I apologized for earlier. I should have known better than to cuff you when you did nothing wrong," John said. "She said you are new here?"

"Yes."

"How long ago were you hired?"

"Uh…earlier last week," Angela replied, dragging on her cigarette with her eyes fixed on the bar's shiny, finished wood counter surface. "I'm not staying here, though. Nope."

"Do you think maybe she was lying?"

"Beats me. I don't care. I only settled on this place to pay for my rent," Angela explained, making eye contact with the handsome detective.

He remained silent, looking down at the bar counter.

"That isn't why you came, is it?" she continued.

"No," John said somberly.

"I figured so. Listening to a crazy tall tale is the last thing I would think of a cop doing when he questions someone," she said fluidly.

"Holden is in this building," he said to himself.

"Huh?"

"My son," John said.

"Why is he here?" Angela questioned.

"He was abducted back in 2010," he explained. "My daughter claimed to have been talking to him last night, and claimed he was alive."

"Did you think….he was _dead_ , sir?"

"For the longest time, yes. But…" His eyes moved back up to her feline-like blue eyes. "D-Do _you_ happen to have seen any children around here, miss…"

"Saxon," she corrected. "Angela Saxon. Don't bother with 'miss'. Just Angela."

"Angela, have you seen children?"

"I don't recall seeing any but, now that you mention it…"

She trailed off, trying to dig deep in her memory as John looked at her curiously. She took another sip of her lemon water and sighed.

"I…I remember… _something_ …when I first started here, I could have sworn I heard the sound of giggling," she explained. "I didn't think much of it at the time, that maybe it was a hotel guests' children, but…other than that…I don't remember, sir. I'm sorry."

"Thank you," he said in a near whisper.

"I hope you find your son, sir," she said.

"I will," John came back with.

"It makes me happy to see…that...you know, some parents actually _give_ a shit about their kids," Angela said nervously. "You don't see it much anymore."

"We are still out there, of course." He paused for a moment. "Did you have a rough relationship with your parents, Angela? Forgive me for being too personal."

"No, no," she said. "It's fine. Well, now that you ask, my dad actually abandoned my mom when I was two. I haven't seen him since. My mom…I'm lucky if I get a phone call from her every three months."

"That must be very hard," he said quietly, about to reach for her hand. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine." She got up from her seat and neatened her skirt, getting her hand out of John's reach in the process. "Well, I should be heading back to work. This is my break for the day, I guess."

"Again, I'm sorry for cuffing you," John said sincerely.

"Stop apologizing," she requested. "It's okay."

* * *

"Ever hear of James Patrick March?" John asked the lieutenant, Andy Hahn at the station that day. Pamela was in the room with them, sitting right in front of the higher-ups' desk with her leg elegantly crossed over the other.

"No," the man replied.

"He was an oiler. He committed killings in the 1930s. I learned about him this morning but researched more into his backstory just an hour ago," John explained, looking at the board to which he had pasted different kinds of photographic evidence related to the hotel killings in the Los Angeles area. "In fact, I think we have a motive here. Whoever is committing these crimes now is trying to pick up where March left off."

"I see….hm," Lieutenant Hahn said. "Your eye for detail is quite remarkable, Detective Lowe, but—"

"Let him talk," Pamela cut in.

"Thanks," John whispered to his partner and colleague. "Anyways, March built a hotel here, and it is likely he might have been a serial killer. Before he topped himself, police were trying to connect him to a bunch of unsolved murders. _They_ couldn't know, but somebody else did."

"What is your point here?" Lieutenant Hahn questioned.

"It's a pattern, Andy."

"A pattern?"

"Yeah." He pointed to an old, aged black and white photograph displayed on the evidence board. "Dead thief, cut off his hands. Thou Shalt Not Steal."

He pointed to another showing mutilated corpses of farmers surrounded by Bibles—"Desperate immigrants were likely looking for work on a Sunday. Remember the Sabbath to keep it holy."

Then, John pointed to the photograph of the recent murders of the unfaithful lovers engaging in sexual acts, the woman impaled on top with a harpoon—"Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery."

Pamela watched as he pointed to another crime scene picture—"Thou Shalt Not Worship False Idols."

"And then we have the Rylance Twins," John continued, looking at the evidence picture of the disemboweled men hung with their viscera hanging out of open wounds in their stomachs. "Most people thought their parents' boating accident was an accident. But maybe our killer knew better. Maybe… _maybe_ the rumors were true that they killed their parents."

He pointed to the next picture of a dead older couple, mutilated and unrecognizable—"Honor Thy Mother and Father."

"Wait just a minute," Pamela intervened, standing up, "you're going to stand here and tell us that our killer is basing his murders off The Ten Commandments?"

"And that someone's picked up where t-this March guy left off?" the lieutenant added.

"Maybe." The detective seemed to determined and sure of this fact.

"I don't know, John. I mean, it _may_ be possible, but I think you're drawing too many webs here and overcomplicating it," Pamela stated.

"Holy shit," the lieutenant suddenly said.

"What?"

"The hotel he built," the other man said, sitting back in the chair. "That's where you're staying."

"Yeah," Pamela said, "it is, apparently. I was shocked, too."

"Be careful."

"Do you think _we_ might be next?" the police psychic asked worriedly in a hushed tone.

"I don't know. _You_ 're asking _me_. You're the psychic."

Pamela straightened her back, looking down at the seated lieutenant and then to John, who just looked at her with anticipation on what she was going to say. She sighed and took a breath.

"You know, just because I'm a psychic, it doesn't mean I know _every_ thing," she reminded them. "What lies in the future is a mystery to most of us. No one can predict the wheel of fortune as it falls."

* * *

 _ **~ a/n ~**_

 **And so it unfolds! I want to take a minute and thank each and every one of you for reading my story! It is your enthusiasm and encouragement that gives me the drive to write. You guys rock!**

 **Here's a little something to intrigue you guys-Pamela's last quote at the very end of this chapter is actually song lyrics! Can anyone guess which song and its artist?**

 **Please leave a Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow!**

 **More to come!**


	6. Chapter 5

**_\- chapter 5 -_**

The next week was full of frustration for Angela as she toiled her way through the dirty bathrooms and soiled laundry room of the vast, extravagant Hotel Cortez. She had taken the liberty of working longer shifts consisting of fourteen hours per day, and at the wage she was making, it was barely enough to cover the costs of her rent and expenses at her own place. She had saved every penny, but her landlord had raised her rent and therefore made it harder for her to function under his building roof.

Of course, the daydreams of modelling for _Vogue_ , visiting the fashion capital of the world, and appearing on the runways as a featured model clouded her mind and provided an escape from the tiring work days; an escape from the sweat and grit she put into every scrub, every ounce of bleach, every step she took pushing the cleaning cart around each floor.

However, while she knew that Claudia, the editor of _Vogue_ with whom she had made acquaintance at the grand opening gala, was staying in the hotel. The tough work kept Angela busy; too busy to reach out and call her by the number listed on her card. She wanted to so desperately, though—anything at all to get away from the enigma of the place she called work.

Seeing Sally strolling down the hall, lighting a fresh cigarette to smoke it during her shift one afternoon changed everything for the worst.

"Can I help you?" the maid asked, looking at the woman with kinky hair dressed in a gauzy lace dress with long sleeves, black tights and brown ankle boots.

"Can't a girl just take a walk?" Sally asked sarcastically.

"Sor _ry_." Angela's voice was never the type to mock anyone, but Sally was different. It was like she deserved it. Plus, it had already been a long day as it was.

"I heard she checked out," the former heroin addict said out of the blue—truth be told, she remembered the number of the room Claudia was checked into, and Angela happened to be adjacent to it with her broom and shovel.

"What do you mean? _Who_ checked out?"

"That shit-don't-stink fashion editor, that's who," Sally sneered, smoking her cigarette lazily.

" _What?_ " Now, the maid was in disbelief, incredulous at what this woman was saying.

"You heard me. She checked out." The addict seemed very adamant in her tone. "Guess this place wasn't up to her standards. Not everyone can appreciate it here, this place and...all this lovely darkness. You know what I mean?"

"No," Angela said with a shrug. "I really don't, and quite frankly, I'm working."

"So?"

"Please leave me alone."

Without saying anything else, Sally walked past Angela and continued to smoke, the smell of three thousand different toxins polluting the air as she blew out the remainder of her puff. Angela shook her head, holding the handle of the broom and sighing. _If I still have her card_ , she thought, _I can contact her_.

So later that night, when she was in her apartment and having just taken off her work shoes, a comfy pair of tan pumps. In an excited frenzy, she dialed the first number she saw—Claudia's cellphone. She put it to her ear and it kept ringing, but didn't even go to voicemail, oddly enough.

So three more times, she called the number—still no answer.

Then she resorted to the home number.

" _I am sorry, but the number you have reached is not in service at this time…"_

Now, the frustration set in— _where could you be_ , Angela asked outwardly in her head.

So as a last resort, she emailed the address on Claudia's contact. The message was brief, yet convincing. After saying a closing greeting, she sent it off only to have a rejection message in her inbox three minutes later.

 _So much for my dreams_ , she thought, grunting and bringing her knees to her chest. The sobs could not be heard, but the tears were abundant as she cried herself into a nervous frenzy.

* * *

"John, I have a very bad feeling," Pamela said as they sat in the meeting room together.

The two had just discussed the evidence found at a brand new crime scene that John linked with the murderer they now knew as The Ten Commandments Killer. A good majority of the evidence was taken by forensics and the ballistics specialists, but what they had in front of them were photos of the actual scene and what was found. Two people were dead with their heads sideways on the table, and they had nails hammered next to their heads to hold their tongues in place. There also was evidence of bludgeoning to the backs of their heads, shown by the record of skull fractures Pamela was reviewing in her heavily-ringed hands.

"About what?"

"I don't know…" Pamela paused slightly, looking at the coroner's records. "These cases are messing up my psyche and my vision is muddled."

"Well, try not to—"

"I notice there are some commandments this killer missed," she cut in, interrupting him. "Like, 'thou shalt not kill', and 'thou shalt not worship other gods before me'. Just a couple _I'm_ personally observing."

"You're right," John nodded in agreement, gathering some of the photographs of the crime scene to get his keen eye for detail into action. "Their tongues were nailed to prevent them from talking, obviously. 'Thou shalt not bear false witness'. These people trafficked in lies. They broke the commandment. This is the…"

"Sixth," Pamela continued, "wait, no, _seventh_. I don't know why some aren't on here."

"We need to stop this so there are not any _more_ and that has been our primary goal since day one. That's why you are with me," John said.

"John," she said tranquilly and wearily, "let's take a breath right now. Think for a minute. W-Wait a minute…"

When she turned her eyes away from the table, he looked at her with a bewildered look. He put his hand on the table, but ended up seeing her take out her large, worn leather hobo bag and standing up to go to the other side of the rather long table they were sitting at.

"What are you doing, Pamela?" he asked.

" _Shh_ ," she instructed, "let me focus. I'm getting something." From her bag, she took out a wooden cup and what looked to be a full bag inside of it made of tanned suede. He watched her open the bag, dumping its contents into the cup as she closed her eyes and concentrated. With her palm over the opening at the top, Pamela shook the full cup around before finally dumping the contents on the table. John was startled, but walked over to his partner to get a closer look.

"Pamela?" he whispered.

" _Shh_ , I'm getting something," the police psychic said quietly, hovering her heavily-ringed fingers over what resembled mancala beans scattered over the table's surface. Her eyes were closed, and she dictated the visions aloud as they came clear to her.

"The hotel…"

"Yes?" John asked, "I'm listening."

"…I…I see…this ugly…he's a _man_ but...in a white wax suit…h-he isn't related to these murders at all…but…something else," she stated aloud, hovering her hands over the beads. She continued "I see…the image of a man…h-he is…uh…"

"He's what, Pamela?"

"He is…it looks like he is sewn…into one of the beds," she said. "Is what I'm seeing real?"

"Sewn in a bed? I-I don't get it. You mean, into the mattress?" John questioned, sitting down to see her hands still hovering over the beads.

"Seems that way. I don't know how he got there…but I am seeing a report of this…to the hotel very soon…" Her voice became a brief whisper before elevating; "rip free…he _will_ rip free…"

"From the _mattress_?"

"Seems that way. Yes. But…"

Then a vague image of court forms came to her mind. Trying to process them, she tried to see the kind of forms they were. She could see them wrapped in a small yellow envelope, so she could not see the official letterhead of the forms.

"I see…these forms are for you," she whispered.

"What forms?"

"I can't see what they are. That is hidden. They're in an envelope," she explained, taking her hands away from the beads and sighing.

"Well…" He trailed off and sat back in his chair worriedly. "Let's hope they give us a lead on this case."

"Well to be honest," she continued, "those forms are what I feel _worse_ about than the case."

* * *

Angela had been instructed to take a break in the lobby of the hotel, and Iris was kind enough to give her a cup of juice with a magazine to read. It just so happened to be _Vogue_ , and for a moment she thought of Claudia. Three pages in, there always was a list of contributors—photographers, assistants, journalists, but oddly enough, Claudia's name was not in there. _Odd_ , she thought.

But then came a scary presence and a rather joyful voice.

"Hey Dono," she heard her boss say. "I've been waiting for you."

Looking up from the magazine, Angela could see Donovan, the handsome but morbidly-pale man with icy blue eyes, slicked back hair, and dressed entirely in black coming off the elevator and toward the main entrance of the building. She decided not to intervene in case things got ugly, but she could tell he was trying to avoid his mother, Iris.

"Look, you need any…uh, help packing?" his mother asked, trying to smile even though her son was deliberately ignoring her.

"Angela and I could help you out. But I, um, I printed out some Craigslist ads for apartments for us." She held out a few papers as an effort to show her son. "Some nice two-bedrooms we have here…."

She smiled down at one, seeing Donovan finally stop in front of her with the meanest glare he could have possibly given her; Angela just watched while pretending to read. "Get this, this is the building in Santa Monica where they captured _Whitey Bulger_. Can you believe it?"

Then, Donovan's voice seemed to bite; no, stab like a ton of knives projecting from the ceiling.

"I will live in a box in MacArthur Park, covered in the _piss_ and _shit_ of this horror of a city before I even _consider_ living under the same roof as _you_ again!" he hissed.

Angela's jaw nearly dropped—how could any man be so cruel to his mother? And how was Iris able to tolerate it in the way she did?

"Don't be a drama queen," she said, shrugging it off. This is our chance. This is what we've been waiting for…" She paused, following him toward the main desk, "here, listen—"

She reached to pat his shoulder, but he rebuffed her.

"Don't touch me," he snapped.

"She never loved you. That snake up on the top floor was just using you until she got bored and wanted something else. But not because of you, you know, because that's just how snakes are," she explained. "Sly…taking advantage of anyone they can get their hands on."

"You really have no idea how much I hate you, do you?" Donovan bit, turning around briskly. "I get that you never wanted to take any authentic interest in me or my needs, but I have worked _so_ hard over the past few years to get you to notice how much I _despise_ you!"

Angela could not read anymore, nor drink her juice that Iris gave her. Her full attention was on the cold-hearted cruelty and verbal abuse Donovan was delivering his mother. What in the hell did she ever do wrong to deserve such treatment?

"Now, you hold on a minute!" Iris said, raising her voice, pointing her finger up at her kin. "I gave my _life_ to you! You have no clue how _hard_ it was for me to raise you and the _sacrifices_ that I made!"

"Name _one_ , one that didn't serve your perverted view of yourself," Donovan said testily.

"Your father!"

Angela's eyes widened— _I relate_ , she thought to herself.

So Iris continued: "you think it was an easy choice kicking him out? Becoming a single mother at that time? _Nobody_ did that, but _I_ did, because he was nowhere _near_ man enough to raise you!"

"My father was the best thing in my life!" he argued, yelling nearly at the top of his lungs. "I hid in the trunk of his truck and he made it all the way to Bakersfield before he noticed and took me back home."

"And you think that's good?" Iris argued, crossing her arms over her heft chest. "That he forgot his _own goddamn_ son? He was an asshole, Dono!"

There was a silence, but it didn't change the fact that Angela was intimidated and a bit disturbed by the abuse he was putting on her.

"I went to an AA meeting once, and after I stood up and told the entire group about you and your bullshit, hardcore addicts came up to me and they were like, 'wow, it's no wonder you're here.'"

Iris just looked at him, and from a distance, Angela could see the hurt and sadness in her eyes. _Poor woman_ , she thought.

"Every choice you made was a _disaster_. First you kick out dad. Then there was that insane vegetarian cult—"

"Breatharians were using food for medicine!" his mother debated.

"I consumed more fiber than I ever did, and shit my pants in school, I ate so much!"

"Fine." Iris paused and looked at her son. "Make a list of all the ways I've failed as a parent, and _SHIT ON IT!_ " Angela was nearly taken aback by her shriek, but she was actually more affected by the crying starting to come out of the older woman who was her boss. " _MY_ LIST BEATS _YOURS_! I GAVE YOU LIFE! I _SAVED_ YOUR LIFE!"

"I WANTED TO _DIE_!" screamed Donovan. "Crack! Heroin! _Nothing_ could do it! Death was my only way away from _you_!"

And that was the breaking point for Iris—she let her tears flow freely from her eyes, sobbing and putting her hands to her face as she collapsed down on the nearest scarlet-colored chair to the main entrance. Angela's face was officially in shock, tears almost forming in her eyes from watching the scene and hearing the atrocious accusations made by Donovan to his mother. As it reminded her of the distant past and her own childhood, she could not help but feel terrible for the woman she once thought was uptight and thin-lipped. However, it all was falling into place—it was because of the years of abuse she had taken from the one person she sacrificed her life and blood for.

"You hated me like that?" the woman wept. "And you let me stay here looking after you?"

Donovan leaned down intimidatingly at the woman, his icy eyes piercing her like daggers; "a _real_ mother would have let her son die in _peace_. She would have _buried_ me, and _grieved_!"

"What mother wouldn't have wanted her son to live? Wouldn't have done everything possible to save him?" Iris sobbed softly.

"You didn't bring me back for me," Donovan argued, "you brought me back for you."

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Angela shouted, finally intervening and having had enough of hearing his cruel, spiteful words. "You get away from that woman right now! I _mean_ it!"

The man looked back at her, and then to his mother, saying nothing but the following before leaving the building; "I'm leaving here. Tonight."

As he walked off into the night, Iris slouched over and began to sob like no tomorrow. The oblivion of the moment and the intensity of her emotions made her neglect the presence of her employee, who had pulled an ottoman closer so she could console her.

" _Shh_ ," Angela lulled as she put a hand to Iris' surprisingly warm shoulder, "it's okay. He's gone. He won't be an asshole to you anymore. My god…I never get angry, but he—"

"I..I d-don't know w-who I am i-if I'm not his m-mother," she said, her voice cracking significantly.

"I say, if you're not his mother, consider yourself lucky," the young woman said assertively. "I can't believe he said those _horrible_ things to you. You were so good to him and everything."

"M-My own son hates me. He always has, even t-though I-I-I have given him…so much…love and a-attention," the woman sobbed. "You know, I s-s-see people laughing and smiling and I-I cannot for the life of me understand w-why. I just don't get the joke anymore…b-because _I_ am t-the joke. I…I am better off dead…"

"Don't you say that," Angela said with determined force, shaking her boss slightly to get her attention and to make eye contact. "Don't you _ever_ say that! You hear me?"

"Oh, what's the use?" Iris wept. "You've never h-had kids. You don't understand."

"You're here for a reason, Iris, and it's _not_ because of that piece of shit son of yours," Angela explained, looking straight in the eye with her feline-like blue ones. "You say I don't understand just because I'm not a parent, but believe me, the verbal abuse I saw you take from him is nothing new to me. In fact, it hurt me just as much as it hurts you now, because I dealt with it once myself…"

* * *

 ** _~ a/n ~_**

 **Just for interest, did anyone catch a little reference in here to an earlier season?**

 **Please continue to leave Reviews, and be sure to Favorite and Follow! Thank you to all of those who have done so throughout the story as I post chapters!**

 **More to come! Stay tuned!**


	7. Chapter 6

**NOTE:** _This chapter is written in the first-person from Angela's perspective. Be warned that there may be some triggering content._

* * *

 ** _~ chapter six ~_**

…and the worst part is, my mother was the one who verbally abused me so much.

I think it had something to do with the fact that my father abandoned us when I was two years old, but I still don't think it's an excuse to abuse people. Normally, someone leaving you like that is something to get over. But who am I to judge? I was two, for christsakes.

I relate to your son, but I never really had the desire to see my father. Why would I want to see a man who wanted nothing to do with me?

That being said, I never had a solid father figure, but I didn't grow up to have daddy issues like some of these other girls do. I was always convinced my mother had those issues. Growing up, she would bring men home and the next morning, they were gone. Sometimes she'd bag a repairman with homemade chocolate chip cookies or bring regulars home from the diner she worked at. I wouldn't be surprised if the majority of tips she earned waitressing were gratuities from the good head she gave the night before.

My childhood was pretty boring up until the age of eight. I had trouble making friends in school. Many of the parents of the other kids didn't want them around me because of my mother and her whorish behavior. Oh yeah, she didn't pay attention to me, at least barely a healthy amount per se. Even at the dinner table, she would say one-word answers to questions or tell me to shut up and eat my food.

Eventually, things became ironic—apparently I had been eating too much when she did that. I was ten or fifteen pounds overweight, naturally.

"Stop stuffing your face," she'd tell me.

But what was I going to say? She barely ever expressed any interest in talking to me, asking about my day at school and how people often refused to acknowledge my existence. If anything, she was verbally abusive and denied it, calling me stupid names that were hurtful and targeted my chubbiness. It isn't like I had grandparents who were alive who would be there to confide in about the problems I had fitting in and functioning on a daily basis.

We did have a neighbor, though—her name was Jerilyn Beard. She was the reason I aspired to become a model.

My mother didn't really pay attention to what I did as a child, but it wasn't like I did anything wrong. I was not a trouble kid. Therefore, I went to her house all the time after I had gotten to know her. This woman was very attractive and older than my mom by ten or twenty years or so, and she was the most eccentric person I had ever met at that point. She was divorced and had two grown children, one in college and another who was married. She was retired, so she spent her days doing whatever she felt like doing, even if it meant entertaining her son's friends by smoking weed with them. Yeah, she tried _way_ too hard to be young again. I didn't realize this until later when I picked up weed and cigarettes myself.

She was about fifty-something when I met her; a wrinkled face with brassy blonde curls and light brown eyes that were calm and collected. Her style of dress was way beyond me; I didn't really like her fashion sense but she had a tendency to wear furs and satin. She wasn't even rich, either, which I found odd.

As we became friends, she would talk about these experiences she had with modelling. I was also convinced she was a narcissist. She had a photo of herself from her modelling days in each room of her house. She was very beautiful when she was young, and if I remember correctly, she had her career during the disco era. Seeing her in these photo shoot stills modelling formal wear, lingerie, swimwear, casuals, and even hairstyles during her career stretch into the early-80s really set a fire in me that has not gone out no matter how much I tried. I think the fire hurt me, though.

I became obsessed with the fashion world, reading my mother's issues of _Vogue_ and _Elle_ magazines and the occasional _Cosmopolitan_ while waiting for my mom's hair to be done at her weekly trips to the salon. Here I was, sitting in the waiting area, plain-faced and chubby, dressed in thrift-store garb looking at beautiful women who were at least five-ten and weighed ninety pounds each.

My obsession was officially taken to the next level when I was twelve or so, after years of tiring my eyes out by ingraining the images of the "perfect body" in my head. I wanted to emulate Gisele Bündchen, Kate Moss, and all these other great models.

I wanted to _be_ them.

I wanted to be them _so_ badly.

So when I was twelve, as I said, my obsession escalated—I had begun to binge.

Whenever my mother told me to shut up and eat at dinner, I gladly took way more than my normal portions on purpose, scarfing it down as though I hadn't eaten in days.

Well, to be honest, there were some days where I would not eat at all. But for the most part it was a brutal cycle of binging and purging.

Binge.

Purge.

Binge.

Purge.

It went on and on. I hated throwing up, but if this was a way to pretend I was eating while staying skinny at the same time, I didn't care. It was an addiction. It was eating me alive from the inside out. No one knew about it, not even Jerilyn.

When I saw that it didn't really do much at first, it drove me to want to binge and purge even more. Again, there were some days where I wouldn't eat at all and just skip meals. My mother didn't give enough of a shit to question why I had brought a toothbrush in the bathroom all the time. She just went about her business, either working long hours at the diner or entertaining men at our house.

Looking back, I can remember now just staring at myself in the mirror, constantly weighing myself on the scale to see if my efforts were making any changes at all. At most, in one week, I lost fifteen pounds, but it still wasn't enough. I kept doing what I was doing. I was out of control.

But when Jerilyn died, I was thirteen—I had gotten much worse.

She had died of a stroke, and I had met her children at the wake and funeral. Everyone in our part of Portsmouth had gone to pay their respects. She looked beautiful laying there, but it created an even bigger void which I had the urge to fill.

Yes, by binging.

I had gotten money from my mom to get three whole boxes of Twinkies. I sat in my room, crying as I stuffed my face with them, Twinkie after Twinkie, reflecting on all the memories I had shared with my neighbor and friend. From the time she gave my first cigarette at age ten to taking me out to eat at McDonalds from time to time just to catch up, everything we shared flashed before me. I barely even got past two and a half boxes. I felt the urge to puke without even gagging myself with the toothbrush.

I ran to the bathroom, but I didn't make it to the toilet in time. I collapsed and threw up in the bathtub. My mom wasn't home. She was out that night. I had to clean it up.

This cycle went on for years. It wasn't just a phase. It consumed my life. I didn't want to die; I wanted to be perfect. Cigarettes I had quit on and off with, but bulimia is no joke. At the time, I felt like I was doing myself a justice, paving the way for my future modelling career. It seemed to pay off in other departments, because by the time I was fifteen, I had lost my virginity and had three boyfriends. No one paid attention to me before I began my compulsive behaviors.

One of my boyfriends, the last I had, complained about my behaviors and went to the guidance counselor and told her everything; my binging, my purging, how whenever he kissed me he tasted the raunchiness of vomit and stomach acid, how my cheeks were puffy without explanation, how I was obsessed with modelling and stuck in my daydreams of runways and magazine covers.

I was sixteen, then. I wanted to choke him, but I didn't—I was dragged down into her office after school one day and I looked at her with such distrust and suspicion as she talked to me.

"Angela, you can't live your life like this. It isn't healthy to make yourself throw up after eating huge meals," she had said.

"I'm going to kill him," I had said—I was angry that he would betray me like that. "I-I don't have a problem, Miss Rossman. He's lying."

"If he's lying, then why do these text messages say otherwise?"

"What?"

"Let's see…"

She began to read them from his phone, which he had freely given her, and I felt so hurt. Later I was thankful, because it was for my own good.

"He says, ' _babe, let's go grab a bite to eat. I'm hungry_.' You say, ' _are you nuts? I'm on a diet_.' Then he turns around with, ' _you need to eat. when did you last have a meal?_ '. Then you, Angela, you said, ' _none of your business. I don't have to tell you shit._ '"

"I never said that." I was in so much denial that it killed me.

"It says it right here, Angela. Why are you doing this to yourself?" she asked me. "Does your mother know—"

I got up and took a massive fit. I was tired of hearing about my mother.

"STOP IT!" I screamed. "Don't mention her!"

There was a brief silence, but then I sat back down again and crossed my legs. I sighed, trying to hold back tears before breaking down right in front of the guidance counselor. She got up from her desk and locked the door to her office, patting my back and sitting next to me.

"Hey, it's okay…I'm going to help you…" I heard her, my wails cutting off her speech.

I couldn't take it anymore. My self-esteem was so low and I was already digging myself an even deeper hole. I finally admitted to having a problem, and the minute she tried to dial my mother's number, I glared at her.

"Don't even bother," I said. "Send me to an institution. I don't want to go back there."

"Why not?"

"Because she won't answer," I sobbed. "She's never home."

She still dialed, and I plopped into the chair until she got off the phone. I heard the most shocking statement ever just then.

"She's coming to pick you up. You're going home for the day."

My mom was surprisingly quick to get to the school. I didn't shed another tear, but I overheard everything my guidance counselor was telling her when she told me to step out of the room. I sat outside, seeing a few of the more popular girls snickering at me as I sat there; the urge to go over and punch them in the face and rip every blonde hair out of their heads was controlled by the sound of their voices in the office.

"Mrs. Saxon, your daughter has an eating disorder. I am not a doctor, but I know one when I see one," she explained to my mother, who returned with shock.

"She eats like a pig. How the hell is that possible?"

"Please, Mrs. Saxon," the guidance counselor said in response to her hurtful, indirect comment about me. "I know a psychologist right here in Portsmouth who can help her. I can write to him and set up a consultation with him."

"I can't afford that," my mother said. "C'mon, are you trying to bleed me bone dry?"

"No, but I do urge that she seek help. For her sake and yours, Mrs. Saxon," the counselor answered. "Look at these text messages her boyfriend has been sending her. He's concerned as well."

I peeked into the room and saw my mom take my boyfriend's phone, scrolling through the texts with the help of the up-down buttons. I felt my knees turn to jelly, my stomach burn intensely—I really felt like throwing up right then and there. I hadn't eaten the entire day, either, and puking up stomach acid and bile was no fun.

"Mrs. Saxon, this is serious," I heard Miss Rossman say again.

"I can't believe this. Goddamn it," my mother grunted.

"You mean to tell me you have not noticed _any_ changes in your daughter's eating habits?"

"I haven't noticed."

So she had the guts to admit it and be honest. I remember her taking me to the hospital the next day, but before that, she made an appointment for later that week to see the psychologist Miss Rossman recommended.

First was the hospital, though. I was in the emergency room for three hours before being examined by a physician. I didn't want my mom in the room with me, so she just waited downstairs. She found four things wrong with me from the binging and purging aside from being underweight—my teeth were slightly decayed in the back of them, my glands were a bit swollen, esophageal inflammation from all the vomiting, and for the entire time, I gradually began to develop these weird callouses on my hands.

My mother was shocked to learn my diagnosis with bulimia, but even more shocked that I needed to be in the hospital for a week. I got two weeks of excused absence from school, though, which at the time was a plus. Catching up with homework was tough. I also had visited my psychologist, who would ask me the most obvious questions about my eating habits.

All in all, it took me a good four months to resist the urge to vomit everything I tried to eat, and another year and a half to eat right again. I was advised to start small, with crackers and jam in the morning and eat larger meals at lunch and dinner. Whenever I went to the bathroom, my mother tried to stop me. At least she gave some shit about me and my well-being for once.

My recovery brought us closer, actually, and for the rest of high school I was normal, so to speak. I had gotten a job to make my own money. My mother and I talked more, and I continued to see the same boy who got me help until the middle of my senior year. I graduated the tenth in my class of 460, and while everyone was going to college in Massachusetts, Maine, Vermont, New York, or the University of New Hampshire right at home, I was still working my ass off as a waitress. My mother was proud but to say the least, I knew she was guilty for not being there much my whole life growing up.

Nowadays, I am lucky I get a call every three months from her. She checks in with me to see how I am. I never call her, though, for obvious reasons. She remained busy a lot even as I went through my recovery. She wasn't verbally abusive anymore, but even though she was before, I could never treat her like your son treated you just now.

Why? Because unlike some people, I am grateful for what I am given. My mother may not have been the best, but it is because of her that I am here.

* * *

 ** _~ a/n ~_**

 **So this was a pretty loaded part of the story. At least you know more about Angela. It isn't as detailed and explicit as some of the background stories of my other characters, but I tried to do that on purpose because this kind of thing CAN be triggering. Trust me, I know.**

 **Another thing, did anyone imagine the physical description of Angela's neighbor/friend? Who do you think she _could_ be? *dun dun dun***

 **As always, I encourage that you leave a Review, Favorite and Follow!**

 **Thank you and stay tuned!**


	8. Chapter 7

_**SPECIAL SHOUTOUT**_ to ** Pluv143000 **for correctly guessing the face-claim for Angela's neighbor, Jerilyn Beard. It was Jessica Lange, yup. Couldn't resist. Enjoy, guys!

* * *

 _ **~ chapter seven ~**_

Iris just stared at Angela as she told her story—for a minute there, she felt relieved knowing that someone cared about her, or at least seemed to relate. Their eyes met, and the young woman could feel her hand being held by the older woman, who sighed and wiped away her tears with a tissue pulled from the porcelain painted box on the table. Angela sighed, pursing her lips downward in a frown.

"Don't just assume I don't know how verbal abuse hurts. I would know," the brunette said.

"You're right, doll," Iris said affectionately as if the woman were her own daughter. "I…I just gave up a huge chunk of my life just to watch over him and make sure he was safe. He died of an overdose, Angela. It happened in 1994."

The young woman expressed bewilderment in her face—"how is he alive?"

"The former owner of this joint saved him," her boss explained. "You know that girl Sally with the messy hair? She killed him. But I got away with doing her in as well."

"You… _killed_ that woman? Wait a minute…" the young woman trailed off. "I-I don't understand. Why is she still walking around?"

"She's…roamed these halls for quite a long while. We are still at odds, but I will never forget that day," Iris said with a sorrowful nod. "She gave him….too much dope…and my son was abusing drugs left and right. All because…h-he hated me…"

"Now, I'm sure he doesn't _really_ hate you," Angela said with doubt in her tone. "He's crazy. I would have _killed_ for a mother who has devoted her life to her child like that when I was growing up. My father was non-existent but…my mother, knowing full well that I lived with her and that she barely wanted anything to do with me…makes me feel…I don't know, _deprived_ of that."

"You poor thing."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me," Angela said. "It's in the past. It's over and done with. But I want you to know that…if he _ever_ talks badly like that again, tell me, and I will take care of him myself."

"That's not an option," Iris rejected.

"Why not?"

"You'll get hurt."

"Why?"

"I-It's a long story," Iris said.

"Tell me."

"I can't."

"Why?"

"Because I can't. It's in confidence with me and the former owner."

"But you said she brought him back to life," Angela recalled. "How?"

"Alright, alright," Iris grunted, finally giving in, leaning in to whisper. "I'll tell you, but you can't tell a soul. Your life depends on keeping this secret."

"Okay."

 _This isn't going to be easy_ , thought the old woman with a permanent scowl and large glasses. She clasped her hands together and looked at her.

"Elizabeth is her name," she explained quietly, keeping watch of her surroundings. "I'm glad she has not met you yet."

"Why?" Angela asked. "Is she mean?"

"She's…a _cold-hearted_ snake. But…I owe her for bringing my son back even though he is quite different now," Iris continued. "She is a glamorous but deadly creature who sustains on a diet of—"

 _AHHHHHHHHAAAAHHHHHH!_

There was the sound of gargled screaming mixed with the dreadful noise of someone gasping for air. Gasping in shock, Angela turned around to see a man half-crawling across the lobby floor. He was gasping for air in the heat of asphyxia, his naked skin covered with dirt and ugly abrasions among deep pressure marks. His eyes, dark and soulless, had yellowing at the whites and the bags under his eyes were the size of paper tea bags.

"Christ almighty!" the young woman shrieked, instinctively running to the severely-harmed man and collapsing to catch him as he struggled to stand up. Iris, in the meantime, ran to the phone to call the emergency number. Angela tried to whisper to the zombie-like man.

"What the hell happened to you? Where did come f-from?" she stammered.

"Ahhh…ahhh…"

"Get away from him! The ambulance is coming!" Iris warned, running to pull Angela away from the undead-looking man.

The sound of sirens came rather quickly, and a police car also came to the scene—the young woman's feline blue eyes widened at the sight of John Lowe and Pamela Klein coming in and observing the paramedics collect the man and strap him to a gurney to prevent him from moving erratically anymore. As the ambulance took him away with him in the back of the vehicle, the young woman, still in her maid's uniform, was approached by John and Pamela, both with determined expressions on their faces. The handsome, dark-haired man spoke to her first, and at this, Angela felt quite nervous.

"What happened? Where did you find him?" he asked, fighting the urge to put his hands on her shoulders.

"I don't know, sir," she said nervously. "I was here and…then I hear him gasping for air and I go over to see if he is okay."

She watched him look briskly at Pamela, whom Angela observed due to her manner of dress; she was shorter than her by a few inches, but even so, she knew she would not be caught dead in what the police psychic was wearing. Her outfit consisted of a black key-hole dress with bell sleeves and an ebony skirt with Aztec-like patterns toward the hemline. Her shoes were dark maroon suede T-straps with a kitten heel, covering feet that were wearing snug nylons. The jewelry she was wearing was gaudier than anything she had ever seen—Pamela wore three different pendants and an actual beaded necklace of amethyst chips, and her wrists were covered in bangles with her fingers donning one ring too many. Her strawberry-blonde locks were fanned down past her shoulders, and her eyes, a blue-gray color, looked at her partner and complied with his simple order.

"You stay here with her. Question her. I'm going with the ambulance."

"Certainly."

As John hurried his way out of the hotel lobby with the remaining medical personnel, Angela just looked at him with admiration. John was indeed very handsome, and she did not think badly of him even though he had cuffed her without reasonable cause the last time they saw each other. How he walked, with that special dignity and regality that only comes in the package with particular types of men; how he dressed, the way his suits accentuated his square shoulders and made him look every bit the man he seemed to be and then some; how his azure eyes penetrated the subjects in his line of view; how his hair was neatly parted on the side, the raven locks set with some type of gel product; the way he spoke, the depth of his voice and the authority he projected.

"Ahem."

Angela snapped out of her amorous reverie, looking at the gaudily-dressed woman and nodding.

"Y-Yes, officer?"

"First of all, just call me Pamela," the police psychic said, raising a palm. "Second of all…" She leaned in to whisper, causing Angela to just stare at her a certain way, "Detective Lowe is married. Stop fantasizing about him."

"What the…" The maid just paused, " _hell_ do you mean?"

"I saw the way you looked at him. I know that anywhere. It's not just a crush, considering he had you cuffed. Must have been a turn-on for you," the police psychic said.

"Ex _cuse_ me!" the young woman asked forcefully, fixing a piece of dark chocolate hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. "How the _hell_ do you know—"

"Chill out," Pamela cut in, holding out her palms and making persuasive eye contact. "I see a divorce in his horizons anyways. Don't worry about it."

There was a silence, and Angela looked around for Iris—strangely enough, she was not present. Where had she gone?

"Uh…"

"I need to ask you some questions about that man who just was taken away," Pamela began, taking out her phone to record her answers. "Please tell me, where did he come from?"

They sat down, and Angela sighed.

"I was down here with my boss when suddenly I hear this disgusting noise, like someone gasping for air," Angela stated in a scurried manner. "I turn around and see him…he's like a zombie, moving toward us…he needed help…I went over to him…"

"I see," Pamela said, "but where did he come from. Do you know?"

"I don't know," Angela said. "I was here the entire time."

There was another silence, and within minutes, Pamela got up to sniff the air like a puppy looking for a lost bone. She looked at her palms, and Angela found this to be quite strange. She watched her walk, noticing it was in the reversed direction as the zombie-like man went in when he came to her and Iris before the arrival of paramedics and the two police personnel. Angela got up and put her hands on her hips.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I…am getting something…"

"What do you mean? Aren't you going to ask me questions?" Angela questioned.

"You're useless to me. You were down here the whole time," Pamela said complacently. "I got to rely on myself for this. I'm sensing it."

"Sensing what?" Angela asked. "I don't understand."

"I don't think you would understand even if I told you." Pamela paused, going up the great staircase with Angela behind her, still watching and following her strangely-led lead.

"That blood was not his…on his skin," the police psychic said as she relied on her intuition and the visions her abilities allowed her to receive.

"Huh?"

Another silence before Pamela stated another revelation about the man's origin and state of health—"heroin. I…sense withdrawals. He hasn't had a needle in days."

"What?" Angela asked, now having reached the top landing on the first above-ground floor.

Then Pamela began to hear the voice of the man, seeing him pushed on the gurney through the hospital corridors by way of her psychic abilities.

" _No! Please! I'm sorry!" the man was crying out._

She could also see John, who was struggling to get between two nurses pushing him into the emergency room.

" _Wait, why are you sorry?" she heard her detective partner ask the man as he looked down at him, struggling recklessly in the straps confining him to the gurney._

" _I didn't mean to kill her," the man exhaled roughly._

" _W-Who did you kill? Calm down. Try to tell me. Who did you kill?" John asked frantically._

" _I didn't mean to kill her! Please! No!" the man repeated more frantically._

" _Who did you kill?! Tell me!" John asked with more force._

" _I thought it was the other one, the junkie whore," the man wheezed._

"What's wrong?" Angela asked, seeing that Pamela stopped in her tracks to fully see the real-time remote visions she was receiving that were relevant to the zombie-like man who clearly had a drug problem. She ignored her and focused on the visions;

" _Sally!"_

" _Sally?" John asked._

" _She did this to me. Sewed me in that mattress. She lied to me. She said that I'd be free."_

"Oh my god!" Pamela exclaimed, looking back at Angela before booking it up the stairs.

The maid followed the police psychic to wherever her gut was leading her; Pamela was relying on her psychic vision, putting her hand on the wall to aid her in locating the torn mattress that had appeared in her mind's eye. Concentrating, she was shocked to be going that whole way to Room 64, the room she and John were staying in. She looked back to see Angela, whose face was nervous and scared, but Pamela opened the door and entered. Walking toward the beds she and John had slept in the entire time since checking in, she noticed that one was unmade with the bedspread and sheets torn off.

They both gasped at the sight, with Angela putting her hands to her mouth—the man had been sewn into John's mattress.

* * *

 _Knock-knock…_

That did it—Pamela had told Angela to stay behind, but away from the torn-up bed in Room 64; actually, away from the room all together. The maid was confused, but Pamela did not explain anything any further as she ventured to the hotel room in which she sensed Sally was. Putting her hand against the wall as she walked helped her psychic vision perfectly, until she came to the closed, polished wooden door. It opened to the worn-looking woman with kinky, short bleached hair wearing messy dark makeup, a black cameo choker, and a leopard print jacket over a royal purple dress made of crushed velvet. She was dragging on a cigarette that was half-smoked, and she spoke rather sarcastically at the woman's presence.

"Sally? Is that you?" she asked.

"No shit. What do you want, lady?" the ghost replied snottily.

"I have reasonable cause to question you. You're lucky it's me. I don't think John would be so lenient with you," Pamela said assertively. "Tell me about your friend at St. Vincent's."

"Oh, junkies," Sally said slowly, dragging on her cigarette and shaking her head while opening the door to let the police psychic in. "You can never rely on a word they say. Why are you wasting your time?"

"This isn't a waste of time. Someone was sent to the hospital, you know. He was sewn into a _mattress_ , for god's sake," Pamela explained. "Tell me who that man was."

"How the _fuck_ should _I_ know?" the heroin addict snided, tapping the ashes off her cigarette. "Why are you wasting my time?"

"Tell me right now. I won't ask again, Sally," Pamela said getting more worked up in her tone.

"Addicts…we only hurt ourselves, you know. It's not like breaking one of the Ten Commandments."

 _Oh my god_ , Pamela thought, _is this the killer we have been searching for?_ Her blue-gray eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

"You want to repeat that for me?" asked the woman with reddish-blonde hair as she crossed her arms.

"What do you mean?" the addict asked, puffing out smoke and putting out her cigarette. "You've never gone to Sunday school?"

"No, no, I've had my _fair share_ of Sunday school," Pamela retorted. "What ever happened to 'Thou shalt not kill', bozo?"

"Well, it should actually say, 'thou shalt not murder,'" Sally contradicted, "because killing can be a righteous act."

"You've been in our room." Pamela paused, thinking of her words long and hard before they escaped her lips. "That man was sewn into that mattress, and _you_ did it."

"No, but if that's an invitation—"

"How's _this_ for an invitation?" Pamela asked, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and gripping Sally's bone-thin wrist and latching the metal against her skin roughly to hear a click. "You're under arrest for murder and attempted murder."

"Oh goody," Sally cooed with a sinister laugh as Pamela had her back to the wall, cuffing both hands in front of her.

"I don't know how deeply you're involved," Pamela grunted in her ear, "or maybe just starved for attention…"

"I am starving," Sally smirked, looking into Pamela's eyes with her own dark brown ones; they looked soulless, as if she had sold her soul to the devil of addiction; if that had been the devil himself, that is. "You're starving, too. I can see it in your eyes."

Sally leaned in closer as if to kiss the police psychic, but the minute Pamela turned her soft, pink lips away, she could feel the heroin addict's tongue licking her cheek gently. She pulled away again, taking her and leading her down the hall and to the elevator.

Once they were in, Pamela pressed the button to go to the ground floor, holding Sally's wrists down only to feel her resisting and reaching to feel one of the police psychic's breasts through her shirt. She gasped, looking to see Sally's dark brown eyes projecting lust into hers. Somehow, she was too immersed in the satisfaction she secretly got from her touch, and as she neared her lips, Pamela noticed a ghostly blue light shine into the elevator through the windows.

"Come on, show me right from wrong," Sally sighed.

"You need help…p-p-please stop touching me…p-please," Pamela begged, suppressing a moan as the ghostly light shining in got more intense.

"Oh, I wish you could," the addict said seductively. "Really, but…your boobs feel too good to stop…"

"Stop it…"

The blue light got more intense, and Pamela could have sworn Sally vanished into thin air upon reaching the ground floor. She got off the elevator and looked around for her, but saw no one, not even the receptionist who was normally at her desk. She thought for a moment, asking herself questions; was it alright to arrest her knowing full well she was a ghost? Did she actually commit the murders that coincided with the Ten Commandments? Why had she come on to her like that?

Going back into the elevator, she pressed the number corresponding to the floor she was staying in, but looked on the floor of the lift to see that her handcuffs were lying there, closed and locked.

* * *

A lot had gone on during the day and into the following night—John learned that the man who was sewn into the mattress was named Gabriel, a heroin addict who had been suffering major drug withdrawals. He also had died an hour after arriving at the hospital, and the physician had discovered something disturbing during the physical examination before his death—his lower bowel was severely obstructed and damaged, the trauma caused by a likely sexual assault with a sharp object. The blood in his abrasions was not his own, and just after death, he was sent to the morgue for an autopsy to find the official cause of death.

Iris had ordered for a new mattress to be placed in Room 64 to replace the one damaged by the man sewn into the old one, and this one was a lot harder to sleep on and much firmer. The mattress was given to the police as evidence to find out if it is significant at all with the hotel murders and to observe more details regarding Gabriel. He was also told by Pamela about how she tried to arrest Sally, but she ended up disappearing upon coming to the ground floor.

Now, he had bigger fish to fry—his wife, Alex, had arrived at the hotel vested in a beret and a tan trench coat, sitting down at the upper-story bar in the hotel. She just happened to show up after the bad signal prevented John from answering her phone calls and texts. John, however, leaned over the balcony and he was staring at only one person as she came down through the elevator with a cart of cleaning supplies—Angela. Though she was too far down to notice him looking at her, he could see her plain uniform and lovely dark chocolate waves flowing in her ponytail. Her face was soft, with full brows and rosy lips, feline-like blue eyes looking ahead of her as she pushed the cart across the geometric carpet.

"You're fidgety. Am I interrupting something?"

He turned suddenly, seeing his wife sit there with a solemn expression on her face. He fixed his drooping, short black hair and nodded.

"Oh, I'm fine," he said to her. "Just…have a lot on my mind about the case and all."

"When did you last sleep?" Alex questioned. "You look terrible."

"I'm fine, Alex." John sounded testy now, making his way over to the table and looking down at his wife, her hard, plain face framed by her honey blonde hair.

"It's obvious you need a _real_ drink, John. Why don't you get one?"

John was shocked—why was she acting so pretentious? _I don't deserve this_ , he thought as his icy blue eyes remained cold at her.

"Why the _hell_ would you say that to me?" he asked. "I don't deserve to be talked to like that, and you know it, Alex."

"You're not in AA," Alex argued, "you don't have a drinking problem. You need to give up this obsession with control."

"I need to stay sharp," John said. "I'm not myself when I drink. You know that."

"Well, you might need one in a minute," Alex said, putting a yellow envelope on the table that had a few forms folded into it. John sat down as Liz, the transvestite bartender, served them their beverages and he looked at the yellow envelope.

"Why? What is this?"

The worry in his voice was evident, but the moment he pulled out the ironclad forms, he saw in big letters it read; ' _Application for Divorce or Legal Separation_ '. His jaw dropped, tears nearly forming in his tear ducts and enough to make them ache as Alex began to speak again, sipping from her scotch.

"I don't expect you to sign them right away," she said, "because you may want to look them over."

"No Alex." He was tearful, biting his lower lip nervously as he slammed the forms and yellow envelope back on the table. "Not now."

"John, we have to," she said, "for each other, for our daughter. I think this is why Scarlett is telling these wild stories, because we haven't moved on."

"Are you serious, Alex?" John asked with frustration as the tears really began to flood his eyes. "I don't want a divorce. I never wanted one. I love you, Alex. _Please_ don't do this to me!"

"And I love you, too, John, but it's not enough anymore."

"I know it's been rough with me out of the house—"

She cut John off right there; "but it hasn't been rough. It hasn't been rough at all. In fact, it's been great. I didn't think that I could do it, but I can. I don't think you should come back. It'll just make things harder for everyone, because, in the end, this is what we need to do.

"No…no…" John was officially in tears, feeling his heart shattering in his chest. "Please. Please, please don't tear this family apart. Alex, _please_!"

"I'm not the one tearing our family apart," Alex said as she got up and finished her scotch. "Someone else did that when they stole our son."

He had officially lost it. As he sobbed, he reached for Alex's hand like a small boy begging for his mother's attention

"Stay. Please stay…" he wept, " _please_ don't leave me, Alex. I'll do anything. I'd die for you. _Please_!"

"I'm sorry, but it has to be this way, John," she said, trying to shake him loose as he wept and pleaded for her to stay.

But she didn't. She paid their tab and left him there, crying and heartbroken with the forms still on the table. His teeth gritted and he tried to keep from crying out. The only one watching him was Liz, the transvestite bartender, who sighed with his chin in his hand, licking his lips to relieve the dryness as he watched the detective cry himself into his own little stupor as his world crashed down around him.

* * *

Upon returning to his hotel room, he was sluggish and still under the delusion that Alex was still with him. How could she have done this to him? It was not his fault that Holden was abducted, and she even said so herself that he was not to blame. As he plopped down on the bed with the new firm mattress, he removed his tie slowly and loosened his collar by unbuttoning the top three buttons on his crisp, clean shirt. Pamela had walked in, and crossed her arms over her chest. The sound of Karen Carpenter and the airy, melodic tunes of the _Carpenters_ was playing on the record player. Her strawberry-blonde hair looked as though it hadn't been brushed in hours, and her face was weary but concerned.

"John?" She paused, taking two steps forward. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. Here, what's this you just put on the bedside table?"

John watched her go to the yellow envelope he had brought up, and the moment she tried to pull out its contents, the divorce papers from Alex, he reached over and snatched them away from her with an angry glare on his face. Pamela winced back, looking down at him with a sigh.

"I saw this coming. Alex wants a divorce," she said. "I never liked that woman."

"Stay out of my business," he snapped. "I'm too upset about it. Don't add to it."

"I'm not. I just see it in your face that you're not happy about it. I would have said something, but—"

" _Stop_ it! Right now!" he barked, getting up and looking at her intimidatingly. "You have _no idea_ what the hell we have been through! You may say you 'see' this shit, but you don't! You are _crazy_!"

That did it—everything Pamela had ever felt was spilling over the threshold now. How dare he take his anger out on her when all she was trying to do was be nice and help him? She had not intended to make him feel any worse, but what he said was not only uncalled for, but enough to infuriate her.

"How _DARE_ you!" he hissed, spitting venom from her teeth like a snake; John winced back, seeing the fury and odium in her eyes. "Don't you _EVER_ call me crazy, you son of a bitch! Without _me_ , you wouldn't even _GET_ this far!"

There was a chilling silence, fitting the overall atmosphere of the room, and Pamela kept raging.

"You say I don't know what you've been through! This coming from a man who takes my word for it! I don't _expect_ you to believe me, but for fuck's sake, CALLING ME _CRAZY_ MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING _RETARD_!" she raged, her face turning red as she tried to calm her voice to a simple, intimidating hiss. "I _was_ married once, so don't you _ever_ just assume what I've been through!"

He was silent, gulping loudly as he stared up in fear at his partner—"I-I'm sorry."

"I've gotten enough shit about my power to see beyond here," Pamela said solemnly, walking away. "I'm leaving."

"W-What about the case?" John asked. " _Please!_ I'm sorry! You're _not_ crazy!"

"Oh, take it back when it suits you?" Pamela chuckled meanly. "Please. Until you learn to appreciate what I have brought to the table, I am going to be alone for a while."

"No, _wait_!"

 _BAM!_

The door to Room 64 shut, slammed closed by a livid Pamela and leaving John all by his lonesome in the room. John could not, and did not want to, cry again to console himself and his newfound loneliness. His wife was gone, now his psychic partner who has been working closely with him on the case. What else could have possibly gone wrong?

Pamela made her way toward the elevator, pressing the button to allow it to go up to her floor. Once it did, she saw the maid, Angela, pushing a cart of laundered, clean towels still with inexplicable stains ingrained in the weaves. She looked at her, and the dark-haired beauty gasped as she slightly raised her full, dark eyebrows.

"Uh…hello…uh…"

"You're safe to go in Room 64," Pamela smiled cheesily.

"I-I don't understand," Angela stammered.

"I told you I saw a divorce in his future. Yet _I'm_ crazy!" she exclaimed. "The _nerve_!"

"I…what?"

"Ugh," Pamela grunted, "never mind!"

"Why are you angry, uh, Pamela, is it?"

"Yeah. John pissed me off. All because he called me crazy for being able to see and access hidden information that others can't," the blonde said, walking into the elevator with her hand on the sliding door to prevent it from closing. "Pamela Klein, psychic detective, tested and verified! They wouldn't hire me if I was crazy!"

"You're…psychic?" the maid asked, wonder in her feline-like blue eyes.

"Yeah. Been this way my whole life. I've gotten shit after shit for it, but look where I am. Aged twenty-seven, married and divorced once," she said.

"W-Why are you telling _me_ this?" Angela questioned.

" _Because_ , Angie-darling," the police psychic's voice droned sarcastically, "I say that if you don't go and keep him company, he's going to be in a heap of shit, and _you_ will still be lonely and without anyone."

"I…am not lonely."

"Bullshit. Yes you are," the police psychic snided. "Go. I _know_ you like him."

She seemed way too convincing, her charismatic advice too persuasive to pass up. Angela shook her head, looking at her.

"I'm working."

"Then bring him a nice hot meal. Room service. By _my_ orders, because that's my room, too," Pamela said, taking out a crisp, mint $20 bill and handing it to her. Angela nodded and accepted it, looking at the woman with strawberry-blonde hair.

"O-Okay."

"Well, I'm off. Goodnight!"

As the gaudily-dressed woman with messy hair situated herself into the elevator, the doors closed to her waving her hand open and closed at the maid with a casual wink, as though she wasn't angry one bit about what she explained to her about. Angela pressed on, pushing the cart of clean towels to Room 64 instead of the food from room service Pamela had requested.

With a light knock on the door, Angela noticed that the person inside was not answering right away. So another light knock did it, hearing footsteps approaching the door on the other side to open it.

John set his sight on Angela, who was there with the cart of fresh towels, and nearly gasped as his heart palpitated. She was beautiful, even though her makeup was plain, her dark waves were back, and she was dressed in a plain work uniform. Her face was his salvation, her soft features bewitching him every bit as her distinctive, feline-shaped blue eyes did. From her smooth, pale skin to her full, naturally-arched brows; to her rosy lips to her full lashes; from the curve of her pear-shaped hips to the length of her curvy legs, she was a vision underplayed by her occupation.

"Uh…r-room service?" he heard her ask as they made eye contact. "I-I have clean towels…f-for you, sir."

"Come in."

He sounded solemn, but let her in with a few clean towels off the dryer. The _Carpenters_ album was playing in the background, just as Pamela left it, and it continued to play the soft, melodic contralto of the long-dead music star:

" _I've been up, down, trying to get the feeling again_

 _All around trying to get the feeling again_

 _The one that made me shiver_

 _Made my knees start to quiver_

 _Every time he walks in_ …"

John just eyed her, his ears focused on the lyrics as she leaned down in front of the chest near the bed to put the clean towels in for his and Pamela's use. He watched her adjust a stray curl that had fallen from her ponytail, just before fixing the folded towels so they were neat and orderly in the chest. Closing the lid, she turned to see him there with the same sad expression, expressing concern as she made a few steps toward him.

"Uh…s-sir—"

"You can call me John," he said a bit more calmly.

"Are you okay? Is there something I can do?" Angela asked boldly.

"No…I'm afraid not. It's too complicated," he answered, feeling relief as she neared closer to him.

"Why is that?"

"Just…I…I feel so alone…I…"

That's when he broke down, slumping pitifully into the crook of Angela's neck as he sobbed, needing emotional release and comfort during a lonely time. She gasped, but loosely put her arms around him out of confusion as to what to do during this type of situation. She was always the one needing a shoulder, never the one to offer it due to her guardedness and prudence.

"Something's wrong with me…" John gulped, trying to talk as he cried senseless to oblivion and soaking the shoulder of her uniform in the process. "I-I think I'm g-going crazy. I-I feel like I'm s-seeing things…. _please_ …h-help me…don't leave me…"

"I…I don't understand…J-John," Angela stammered nervously, reluctant to call the detective by his first name.

"First my son is a-abducted…t-then my wife wants to leave me…n-now I piss off the o-only h-h-help I have…I…I can't win…m-my life is falling apart…"

" _Shh_ ," Angela consoled, patting his back. "You're lonely…I…I can understand why you feel so lonely."

"Y-You do?"

"My whole childhood was lonely. I am over it, now, though," she told him, loosening her arms around him and looking into his beet-red, ice blue eyes. "You'll be okay. Trust me."

"I…e-everything w-was all my fault. I am sorry for everything," John said, sniffling and trying to hold back more tears. "I…am sorry for not being able to bring her boy back…and for breaking m-my family apart…a-and—"

"No, John. _No_." Angela said more assertively, drawing his attention to her. "Do _not_ blame yourself for what someone else did. That is no way to go. You did all you could, and damn it, I can see it was your best. I don't know you that well, but I can tell you are dedicated to what you do."

John looked into her eyes, tilting his forehead down to hers before suddenly crashing his lips onto hers.

"Hmm!" she moaned.

Her eyes were widened, but they gradually closed to feel the surprisingly soft way in which he was kissing. He really was a handsome man, with his raven black hair and his strong jawline and light blue, intensely penetrating gaze; the way he dressed in the sophisticated, authoritative way he always did. She put her hands on his shoulders, but rather than pushing him off, they rested there as they shared a rough, but passionate kiss. When he broke it, she felt discouraged, but what he said next broke her heart and let pure sympathy bleed out into the need to comfort him.

"Don't leave me," he whispered, "I don't want to be alone."

"You're not alone," Angela whispered back. "I'm right here with you."


	9. Chapter 8

**NOTE:** _Contains explicit material. Discretion is advised!_

* * *

 ** _~ chapter eight ~_**

John backed Angela up, his lips caressing hers as her back became gradually more adjacent to the bed he had occupied since his stay. Without hesitation, he let his animalistic urges take control, something he had not done in quite some time, by pinning Angela to the bed by her wrists with her legs wrapped around him. When he broke the kiss, he looked down at her and sighed.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Don't be," she said, reaching up to the fourth button down on his crisp, clean white shirt. "I…I want to…"

"You do? Are you sure?" the detective asked, feeling himself getting harder in his slacks as his bulge rested against the warmth between her legs. Her panties were exposed to him, the skirt of her uniform hiked up due to the rough movements he was making.

She nodded, and that was his signal to lean down and begin to undo her buttons, caressing her neck with his lips until she let out a sigh of pleasure; he had found her sweet spot within minutes as his hands unbuttoned her maid's dress and began to reach beneath to feel her breasts through her strapless bra. They were not particularly huge, but just large enough to fit into the palms of his hands. She tossed her head back, grinding her hips against his as desire began to burn in her loins.

John reclaimed Angela's rosy lips again, taking in her drugging, sweet nectar as their tongues danced in tandem with each other. She could feel his calloused hands caressing the smooth paleness of the average-sized, pink-tipped swells on her chest. He moved lower, but before he could, Angela worked at undoing all of his buttons and unbuckling his belt to release the crisp fabric tucked beneath the band of his slacks. When John finally tossed his shirt on the floor, he leaned down and struggled to get Angela out of the maid's dress, taking the rest of the buttons out of the eyelets as she helped him take her arms out of the sleeves.

Now, she was just in her strapless white bra and near-soaked white panties. He was still wearing his pants, which he was aching to get off and release his rock-hard member from the confines of the stretchy fabric making up his boxers.

He pulled down the cups of her bra, making her moan as his mouth seized one of her rosy peaks blindly, his eyes closed as his tongue swirled each of the swelling buds. She sighed and moaned, running her fingers through his raven-black hair and feeling the gel that once kept it into place.

"Ah…ah…"

Pure lust coursed through John's veins as he used a free hand to reach down and feel the young woman's wetness through the fabric of her panties. Angela was breathless, especially when he reached in and felt around for the one spot that made any woman tingle and writhe in ecstasy. Her golden, silk flesh felt so tantalizing against his calloused, manly fingers, and as she grinded against him, he knew she wanted more and wanted to fulfill this desperately.

"A-Angela…"

"John…p-please don't stop…" she begged, feeling the band of her panties slide down both legs as he removed them.

But he didn't stop—in fact, he kissed up each thigh softly before sticking his tongue out against her most secret of places. The small patch of hair just above her fleshy mound did not bother him as he held her hips close to his face, the stubble on the lower half tickling Angela's thighs slightly as she writhed in sinful agony. Her panting grew noisier and noisier as he drunk in her musky sweetness, his tongue just barely entering her as she let out a cry for release.

"Ah! John!"

"Hm…" he moaned, continuing to pleasure her with his tongue. Her juices seemed to drip all over him, but he didn't care. When he traced his tongue strokes closer to her small bundle of sensitivity, she nearly screamed while gripping the sheets.

"Yes… _yes_! Oh…you're gonna make…me…ah…"

He kept going, using his lips to gently suck on it as her juices began to seep from the glistening womanhood his tongue was making love to. Without hesitation, he slid in a finger and pressed it upwards to a more secret, enigmatic spot that he knew would send chills through the brunette's body. Angela cried out and screamed, feeling the flush of her skin and the lust in her loins grow more intense as she felt like she was going to see white at any given moment.

"YES!"

In response to her cries, she felt his finger thrust in and out but no longer than before his lips came back up to hers, giving her a taste of herself. His finger was still inside her, and Angela did not let her inhibitions take over even as she reached in his pants and began to stroke his thick shaft.

"Oh…." he grunted.

With his finger still inside her wetness, her hand pulled out his member and she stroked it, feeling the thin, sensitive skin move up and down around his love muscle like a tight-fitting glove. Her thumb gently pressed against the tip, making him growl with lust as he took her hand away.

"I can't take it…I…I need it…"

"Do it," Angela whispered, "take me…"

At that moment, John replaced his soaked fingers with his even harder arousal, guiding himself slowly, inch by inch, into her molten center. In response to him filling her in one swift moment, Angela cried out in ecstasy, her nails digging into his sparse chest hair as she arched against him.

"Ah…ah yeah…"

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine…I-I've done this before…" Angela said, feeling his hand caress her face.

"Oh yes…it feels so good…"

He began to thrust, feeling his loneliness fading away with each thrust into her. He could feel her walls tightening up around him, and her nails digging more into his skin. His lips searched upwards past her collarbone to her sweet spot again, making her cry out with bliss as he nails scoured their way to his shoulders and down to his back.

"John! Ah!"

"Yes…" he hissed through his teeth, his breath sharp as his thrusts grew more powerful in speed and pressure. His hands grasped her hips, feeling their curviness and fullness as he thrust forward, allowing her to accept as much of him as she could. By now, she was howling and moaning beyond any limit she had ever set on herself.

"Ah! AH!"

Her frenzied writhing was enough to drive him insanely wild as she arched her body willingly against him. As Angela kept crying to god for release with the sheets collected in her fists, he continued to thrust into her as he lifted her hips from the bed. Getting a better angle, he knew he was starting to lose control, feeling his warm, white-hot eruption clash like ocean waves against her fluid release all over his thick manhood.

He buried his face in her neck, making her moan from the sensation of his hot breath against her pale skin, but withdrew it as he pulled out of her, looking down at her with the strangest expression. Angela looked back up at him, and then down to her most secret of places— _oh no_ , he thought, _what have I done?_

"I…I…"

"What?" Angela asked, knowing full well that he released inside her.

"…I feel…better…you're here."

"I'm here."

"Yes."

"I-Is _this_ all you wanted me for?" she asked him, biting her lower lip as her eyelashes batted at him.

"N-No…I…I enjoyed it…I…"

Angela sat up and put her panties back on, taking them from where he tossed them; "then what?"

"I'm sorry." His response was unexpected, sounding guilty and shameful.

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong," she replied with her eyebrows slightly drawn inward.

John simply nodded, looking down at the lovely brunette he had just had the pleasure of becoming one with. Something inside him screamed guilt because he still loved Alex even though she left him with nothing but grief and divorce papers. He was alone without his children, both Holden and Scarlett, and Pamela had gotten angry at him, and she was the only one helping him solve the case. Angela, however, was different. She had voluntarily come in, willingly giving of her body for a moment's pleasure and his comfort from his loneliness. Yet there was something deeper—why couldn't he put his finger on it?

John lay down next to the young woman, who closed her eyes of exhaustion within moments. Twnety minutes into their shared slumber, he could have sworn he saw the figure of a suited man with a curl in the front of his head standing in the doorway of the bedroom area. He closed his eyes for a minute, shaking and trying to disregard it, and he was right to do so, because the next time he looked at the threshold, it was gone.

* * *

Angela ended up staying with John in the hotel room, but strangely enough, Pamela did not return. The two woke up the following morning just in time for her longest shift of the week, lasting fourteen hours that day starting at seven. She got into her clothes, and she noticed, strangely enough, that John hadn't even paid her any affection. They had sex the night before, and now it was just awkward.

So she left without a word.

Six hours into her shift, it was just past one in the afternoon; she was vacuuming a corridor on the third floor when she saw Donovan, the handsome man with penetrating ice-colored eyes, pale skin, and slicked brown hair, walking by worriedly. She glared at him, but kept her mind on her work despite her attention being drawn by a peculiar red band around his neck—what had happened to him?

"Excuse me." It was the man's voice; she heard him perfectly fine, but ignored him and pretended not to hear him over the loudness of the vacuum as it sucked dirt from the floor.

"Hey!"

 _Click_. The vacuum went off.

"What?" Angela asked firmly.

"Got a minute?"

"Why?"

"Can you help me?" Donovan asked, looking into her eyes hypnotically. I've got no money, no friends I can crash with—"

"You come to me for help?" the maid asked. "The nerve."

"Look, I just came back. I'm actually trying to find my mother. Do you know where she is?" he asked.

"Why the _hell_ should I tell you? Even if I _did_ know where she is right now?" Angela snapped. "I saw the way you treated her, you _piece_ of _shit_!"

"You don't know me! So shut up and listen!" he responded aggressively. "I don't even have a room at this hotel. I have got nothing. No one.

"I have _no_ pity for someone like you. Now, get lost!" the dark-haired woman said in a vicious hiss, turning the vacuum back on only to click it off again and start ranting at him for his awful, abusive behavior toward Iris.

"You think you've tasted humility being out on the streets, laying in the _shit_ and _piss_ and all the world's waste _dumped_ on you? You haven't even BEGUN to taste shit!" she continued, her feline-blue eyes cold and angry at him with hatred and odium.

"How the _hell_ would _you_ know, sassy-pants?" Donovan asked with gritted teeth.

"I could have died being bulimic those four years! It didn't help my mom was a deadbeat who didn't look after me!" she stated harshly, pointing her finger at him while fearlessly making eye contact. "You should be ashamed of yourself for abusing your mother like that! What the hell makes you think she deserves that?"

"I _abused_ her?" Donovan asked with sarcasm in his voice.

"I know abuse when I see it, you," Angela barked. "I may have come from a broken household, but I've seen my fair share of it. You are the _worst_ I've seen. Down the road, you may find someone who treats you better, screws you better, or even someone who makes you laugh more than cry. But you'll _NEVER_ find anyone who loves you as much as _she_ does! She's given her life for you, and damn it, it wouldn't surprise me she's got no life left to live because of _you_!"

Donovan looked down at her, feeling shameful for the abuse he projected at his mother last he saw her. He sighed, shaking his head and looking down at his square, pale hands. Angela felt better letting him know how she felt, but she felt that on the grand scale of things, her opinion was just another person talking and giving him a hard time. She did not care, however.

"I have to find her," he sighed. "I…I have to apologize."

"I hope she forgives you," Angela said firmly.

"Come with me."

"Why?"

" _You_ 're around her more," he said with mild suggestion. "When did you last see her?"

"Yesterday, why?"

"Oh geez," Donovan said. "I…I wonder if she's with Sally."

"Sally? The druggie?"

"Yeah."

"Well…."

"Let's go!"

He grabbed her arm, and off they went down the hall, booking it as fast as they could up a flight of stairs to where Sally's permanent residence was. Donovan didn't even seem out of breath, but Angela felt her hair being slowly disheveled with each gapped step she took in her run to the room he was aiming for. The door was closed, so he banged on it really hard with his fist.

 _BANGBANG!_

It opened—Sally held a magazine in her hand, looking at the two with an annoyed squirm. His voice seemed distressed, but the addict was unfazed.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"Where's my ma?" he questioned frantically.

"She's asleep. She's out _cold_ ," Sally said with morbid suggestivity. "Come back later."

"There _is_ no later, you bitch!" Angela fumed. "What the _hell_ did you do to her?!"

"I didn't do anything." Sally smirked sinisterly, seeing and letting Donovan barge into her apartment and rush to find Iris. "Nothing she didn't _ask_ me to do."

Angela's jaw dropped, her kitten heels clacking against the old wooden floor and mushing into the aged carpet beneath them—"you wouldn't _dare_!"

"No, no…" She could hear him muttering, almost breaking down into tears, but once Angela walked toward the bedroom area of Sally's haunted suite, the horror became real.

Her feline-shaped blue eyes grew as she saw what looked to be Iris' body, laying with her head propped on a pillow and her hands crossed over her sizeable torso as if being laid to rest in a coffin lined with plush silk. What was even more shocking was the fact that there was a bag fit snugly over her head, plastic still clinging to her nostrils and her parted lips. Angela looked, her hands covering her mouth as tears began to fill her eyes; yet an ocean flew from Donovan's as he went on the bed to try and help her.

"No, no," he began to sob, resting his head on his mother's fresh corpse. "No! She…she can't be dead! She's all I've got. Oh _PLEASE_ , NO!"

"Oh, come on," Sally droned, lighting a fresh cigarette and taking a puff. "You told her you wanted her dead."

"How _could_ you?!" Angela asked forcefully, tears streaming down her cheeks as her voice became a scream. "You _bitch_! I can't believe you would—"

"Dono, what are you doing?" Sally interrupted, looking at the man who was crying over his mother's body remorsefully. "No, don't do that!"

Angela looked in shock, seeing that Donovan had pulled back his sleeve and took out a pocket knife with a large-than-average blade embedded into the hilt. He took the blade to his pulse point, slicing through every layer of skin down to the nearest, freshest vein. The maid was horrified, petrified by the sight as she watched Donovan let his own blood drip down onto his mother's parted mouth.

Inside she was screaming. She was officially disturbed. This was it; there was no way for her psyche to return back to normal. She heard him speaking to her as if she were a baby. _He hated her_ , she thought, _I think he's realized his wrongs_.

"Come back, Ma…"

 _Drip…drip…drip…_

As more blood stained Iris' cold, stiff lips, he continued to encourage his mother back to life with sobs and thick, oxygen-rich blood dripping on her lower face—"come back to me…come back…please…please, ma…I love you…I'm sorry…I-I'm so s-sorry…"

Angela felt Sally's presence coming closer to her and smelling the temptation of another cigarette as she continued to watch in shock and unfathomable horror—Iris' lips started to move, but her eyes had not opened.

"There you go, ma…" Donovan smirked with a chuckle of hope, "….there you go….yeah…"

Angela heard Sally whispering, and when they made eye contact, she could fully understand what she was saying despite the shock of the moment.

"Now _there_ 's some twisted poetic justice, don't you think?" the ghost asked.

Just recently, he had exhibited such horrible emotional and verbal abuse to his mother, who seemed to have a hard shell disguising a mushy, soft, sensitive center. Angela was beyond appalled at the sight of Iris' lips drinking up her son's blood from his slit wrist.

She could see her fingers moving, but just after, her eyes suddenly opened—the maid did nothing except scream with horror.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

* * *

 _ **~ a/n ~**_

 **If you like short, intense chapters, then this was probably something you enjoyed!**

 **As always, I encourage you to leave a Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow!**

 **Thank you all! More to come, so stay tuned!**


	10. Chapter 9

_**~ chapter nine ~**_

After years of hopelessness and fruitless searching, Alex finally had the true love of her life back in her home again.

Holden.

He was back, but very different. Nevertheless, she still loved him unconditionally. Being a pediatrician, she thought, would help her find out what was wrong with him; why her tow-headed boy was sickly pale from the grief of time; why his light blue gaze seemed vacant and unresponsive; why his usually-peppy self, as Alex remembered, was no longer present. His face barely showed any emotion, and his back was straighter than a ruler, rigid posture for such a young boy.

The dog came running to Alex and her long-lost son, barking excitedly but growling with fear at the pale boy with yellowing platinum hair.

"Jasper, stop it!" Alex exclaimed. She changed her tone when speaking to her son; "don't worry, Holden. He's our dog. He's usually very sweet. We got him two years ago. Scarlett got lonely."

Holden seemed to be staring off into space, specifically in the direction of the framed pictures resting on the desk behind the back of the sofa. Alex sighed, going toward the nearest window to pull back the curtains and let light into the room. Once a beam of light hit her son's icy, pale skin, he groaned.

"W-What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked with concerned. "Are you okay?"

"The light hurts me," Holden replied in a monotone as he watched his mother replace the curtains to their originally closed position.

"I'm sorry, uh…" Alex, confused by this, walked toward where she put her worn leather briefcase of medical supplies, opening the latch to pull out a thermometer as Holden sat down on the couch. "I'm going to give you a check-up. It'll only take a minute, okay?"

Holden just watched her, staring off into space, almost staring right through his mother as she prepared the thermometer to put the ear bit in his ear.

"Come over here, baby. Can you sit still for me?"

After a short beep, Alex took the thermometer out of his ear and was alarmed at the abnormal temperature her son—in the rather large digital numbers, the display read 66.6 degrees Fahrenheit.

"D-Do you feel cold, Holden?" she asked nervously

"No."

"No?" she asked, trying to get reassurance. "D-Do you know where you are, baby? Do you remember this house?" She crouched in front of him, looking around before back into her son's vacant eyes. "You're home! You're finally home, baby."

"I'm thirsty," Holden said blankly.

"Of course you are," Alex smiled tearfully, "I'll get you some juice, all right?"

 _Knock-knock!_

 _Who could that be_ , Alex thought, her direction to the kitchen being diverted to the path to the front door where she opened it to none other than Pamela, who was still dressed in the same outfit as two days before, smelling of stale perfume with her hair unkempt; her strawberry-blonde hair seemed to fall flawlessly, nonetheless as her blue-gray eyes stared at the plain-faced, blonde soon-to-be-ex-wife of John.

"Alex," she said.

"What are you doing here?" the woman asked, crossing her arms over her black trench coat as she looked at the bohemian-dressed partner of her husband.

"You have Holden back," the police psychic said. "I'm very happy for you."

" _What_? Wait…"

"No time to explain," Pamela said quickly, stepping over the threshold, "let me in."

Doing so, Alex was extremely puzzled but saw Pamela's eyes widen at the sickly, tow-headed boy still sitting on the couch of the Lowe residence. In an instant, the police psychic made her way over and crouched in front of the boy, looking at his familiar face and sighing.

"Thank god," she whispered.

"I-I'm going to get him some juice," Alex said to Pamela. "I'll be back."

"Wait a minute," she protested. "I need to talk to you."

"Okay."

The two made their way to the kitchen, and Pamela followed the plain-faced blonde's lead. She stood as she watched Alex reach into the fridge and pull out a half-full gallon of orange juice as well as a glass from the whitewash cupboard above her. As she poured the juice, it created a mess everywhere—in frustration and in the heat of emotional intensity from the situation, Alex began to sob heavily. Pamela grabbed a towel and dabbed the counter dry before listening to the quiet, broken speech of the distressed woman.

"I can't b-believe he i-is home…" Alex wept softly.

" _Shh_ ," Pamela said, trying to show an ounce of compassion toward the other woman. "He's here. Everything will be okay."

"Y-You don't understand…y-you're not a mother…" Alex sobbed, trying to wipe her eyes.

"Yeah, that's right. I'm not," the police psychic said affirmatively. "But you seem to like kids. You're a pediatrician, of course."

"I wanted to save kids because I felt I needed saving," Alex began, trying to sniffle away the drippy nose caused by her crying. "Suffice it to say, mine was not a happy childhood, so the cliché in my case iis dead on. Then Holden was born. It was like I finally fell in love for real, because all the cracks and missing pieces came together. I felt whole. I'd found my soul mate. I…I even wondered if I truly loved John, because my feelings for him were never as powerful as my feelings for Holden."

Pamela listened, her eyelids lowering to almost a weary, attentive expression as she put her hands on her hips.

"I couldn't stop smelling his head. It made me feel drowsy and giddy, like we were in the middle of a lavender field in the south of France," the woman continued. "The smell was real. He truly smelled like fresh lavender. It was and always will be my drug of choice. And I've always felt guilty because I never quite bonded like that with Scarlett when she was a baby. See, with Holden, it was a special kind of love. Maybe a once in a lifetime thing." She sighed gently, sadly with grief at the memory. "And then…he disappeared."

Pamela nodded—"that is very difficult to deal with."

"It sure has been. At first, every time I heard the phone, I had hope that someone would find him. My heart pounded. Then after a month or so, the phone was just the phone. And then a year has gone by, and I accepted that the next year was going to be the same. That went on for five years, and now that I have him, I'll _never_ let him out of my sight again."

The two women exchanged a moment of intense eye contact, and without warning, Pamela took Alex's wrists and looked down to see a vertical scar down each. They were not very deep, but then out of the blue, the woman's psychic attunement gave her the frightening vision of Alex laying in a bathtub of warm water. The water was tainted with blood, and the scars before her reverted to open wounds before seeing another vision of John. She gasped and let go of her hands, confusing Alex in the process.

"W-What?"

"You attempted suicide…and John saved you," Pamela said sadly.

"Y- _Yes_ …how did you—"

"I can see the scars," the police psychic said, "and…well…did John tell you I am a psychic cop?"

"I haven't spoken to him," Alex said quietly. "It's for the best that I do not associate with him anymore."

The woman continued to pour another glass full of apple juice after getting it from the fridge, putting both back where she found them before being followed by Pamela back into the living room. Walking toward the back of the sofa, she saw Holden was no longer sitting there.

"Holden?" she called out. "Hello?"

But it was Pamela who found Holden, who was leaning down to do what looked like petting the family dog. However, she looked closer with Alex's eyes as a secondary witness, letting out a screech of fright as she pulled him away.

"HEY!" the police psychic yelled. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Oh my god…" Alex said, putting her hands to her mouth. "What happened to you? What's wrong with you? You ate our dog!"

"I feel sick," Holden said wearily. "I need my mommy."

"Oh baby," Alex sighed sadly, putting a hand to her son's icy, ageless face, "I am your mommy."

"No," Holden protested. "My other mommy."

Alex's eyes widened, but her attention was caught by the fact that Pamela began to breathe heavily as if under stress, going toward the dining table as she pulled out her cup with the suede bag of beans. She muttered to herself, taking the beans from the bag and putting them in the cup to shake them. Alex's face was full of bewilderment, watching the woman deeply concentrate before tossing the beans on the table.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I…I am seeing something," Pamela sighed, putting her hands over the fallen beans on the table.

"I…I don't—"

" _Shh_ ," Pamela hushed, beginning to dictate the visions explicitly as they came to her. "I…see a man…his hair is black and spiked… _he_ was the man from the fashion show!"

"Fashion show? I don't get it. What are you doing?" Alex asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Divination," Pamela answered. "It allows me to see things, know where things are, when they happened…it helps a lot."

There was a silence.

"I…I see a woman…she is wearing all red…a turban-styled hat…I…I have seen her before, too…this man and her are connected…and…" She opened her eyes, seeing Holden stare up at her from the distance he was standing at by the couch and the fresh corpse of the family dog.

"What is it? Why are you looking at Holden?" Alex asked, shaking her head.

"Y-You need to get up to that hotel _right now_ ," the police psychic ordered, taking her hands away from the beads as soon as she got the image of sickly-pale, blonde-haired children, thinking of Holden.

"W-Why?"

"Holden is tied to her…y-you need to go. Take him with you. I advise you to," Pamela said calmly.

"But I can't lose him!"

"You won't!" Pamela exclaimed, looking into her eyes persuasively as her voice became gradually vehement. "Trust me. He will be _just_ fine. If anything, this woman holds the key, the _solution_! Be careful of the man with spiked hair. He may try to hurt you."

"What?"

"Just go," Pamela repeated. "Go!"

"W-Wait a minute," the mother of Holden protested as she gathered her son.

"What?" Pamela sounded irritated now.

"Is there anything else I need to know before I leave?" Alex asked curiously.

Taking another glance at the scattered stones, Pamela sighed and gave what seemed to be a prophecy for Alex to follow: "with this solution, there is a sacrifice you must make. However, its effect on you will depend greatly on how much you are willing to give up to have your son back."

Alex nodded, looking at Pamela with joyful tears in her eyes.

"Thank you," she wept softly. "Thank you, _thank you_ …"

"Now go! There's no time to waste! She is on the…" Pamela closed her eyes, receiving a vision of a high-end penthouse with a lot of modern art pieces on display, " _top_ floor! Highest floor in the Hotel Cortez! _Go_!"

Too excited for the solution to her son's strange condition, Alex collected her bag and Holden, holding his hand tightly as they made their way out of the house, unknowingly leaving Pamela all alone in the foyer of the residence. However, she looked around, going toward the desk with picture frames and looking down to see a happy, healthy Holden surrounded by Scarlett and their parents. Picking it up, she got a closer look and nodded, touched by the closeness the family once had.

Then she got a strange, remote vision—it was of a gun.

Following her instincts, she peered down to see a drawer at the open part of the desk. She replaced the picture frame and opened the drawer to see there was a pistol laying there in plain sight. She picked it up, looking at its shininess and the lack of wear near the chamber's opening. Seeing it was only loaded halfway, she found bullets in the drawer and put them in the barrel.

With that, she left the Lowe residence, hiding the gun in her skirt pocket as she went to the nearest parked cab to go back to the hotel— _she needs this_ , she thought to herself.

* * *

Alex followed Pamela's instructions exactly as they were given, and let Holden lead the way, for he knew more about the hotel we was kept in than she did. Her soon-to-be-ex-husband also seemed to, but she knew it was in her best interest to not associate with him. She cared not where he was; in fact, the only care she had in the world at that moment was Holden.

He led her up a long flight of carpeted stairs, the color of the weave a strange blood red. With every step she took, it made her think that her legs were going to break. The staircases were not steep, but it was a wonder how Holden kept up. She could not stop, ever; never for Holden, her precious son.

It took a full half hour to reach the highest floor of the building, just as Pamela had advised. She came upon an art-deco styled door, bursting it open to see a woman standing, a woman of grace and innate power.

Alex took in the woman's features, stunned by her beauty and her allure—her hair was neatly piled in an updo, and she was wearing a figure-fitting orange skirt suit with a straight skirt that perfectly accentuated her long legs and made her heeled feet look smaller. Her face had an intense heart shape, almost like an inverted triangle, with structured cheekbones that narrowed to shiny, full ruby-red lips. Her makeup looked rather natural for a woman who seemed glamorous, minus the lips, because her eyeshadow was done with a pointed corner on the outer lid in bright beige.

"Hello," she said in an enchanting monotone. "You must have a lot of questions. Come sit."

Alex could not say no, so she sat down across from the woman, who stood up to go to the credenza behind the lavish couch upon which she was sitting. The woman watched to see the white-skinned woman pour from a liquor decanter into two small wine-shaped shot glasses. When she spoke, it was as though she knew why Alex was there, intuitively and supernaturally.

"It must have been a shock for you to see your boy," the woman continued, "and I imagined you'd lost hope long ago."

"I…I never gave up," Alex answered, feeling calmed and relieved by the tone in her voice.

"No, you didn't," the vampy, pale woman said. "Your devotion moved me." She was now bringing over the liquor decanter and two glasses on the tray to the coffee table in front of Alex. "I could feel your longing, and I am certain Holden felt it, too. That's why he came to you."

Alex couldn't take it; the anger and resentment toward this woman was real. Her eyes projected hatred as she hissed; "you _stole_ my son!"

"I did not steal him," the woman replied calmly, sitting down across from her and taking a sip of what looked to be cognac. "I saved him, like I save all my children."

"From what?" Alex asked meanly.

"Neglect." The woman in the skirt suit paused and nodded sadly. "I could see where they were headed. A tragic, wasted life. I opened my heart and the children came to me willingly. Therefore, I never stole them."

"I _never_ neglected my son. I _LOVED_ him!" Alex raged.

"Can you say the same about your husband?" the woman asked rhetorically.

Now, Alex was beyond furious at this woman and her eerily calm demeanor about such a sensitive matter. She watched as the woman extended the full glass of cognac to Alex, offering it to her. Due to her anger and frustration, the plain-faced blonde smacked it out of her hand, causing it to smash on the floor. The woman with lily-white skin and matching platinum hair maintained her calmness and tranquility as she listened to Alex's rage.

"What did you do to my son?!" she yelled. "I'm already done with your bullshit!"

"I brought him here to keep him safe," the woman replied, crossing her leg over the other and leaning back, "like I did with my other children. The world can be such a…dangerous place."

"Stop it!" Alex shouted, gritting her teeth. "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HOLDEN?! HE'S SICK! HE'S PALE! _He ate our dog!_ TELL ME!"

"You're a doctor," the woman said, a correct, but wild guess. "I'm going to put it to you in a way that you can understand."

"Really? And what's that?!"

"Holden has contracted an ancient virus. While it is a blood disorder, the effect of the disease is health, vitality and everlasting life," she said blissfully.

"Whatever you did to him," Alex bit, " _change him back_."

"So this is this why you came up here?" the woman asked.

"Change him back or—"

" _I_ 'll kill you!"

Alex and the woman looked to see a strawberry-blonde woman standing in the doorway with the pistol pointed at the vampy, pale creature. It was Pamela, a defensively look on her face as Alex noticed that the gun she was holding was the one from her drawer. The police psychic took her stance out of the firearm pose and looked to Alex, to whom she tossed the gun to from a distance.

"You forgot this. Never leave home without it!"

Alex caught it, and promptly pointed it at the woman, who still looked relaxed as ever.

"There is no going back. You would be quite foolish to shoot me," the pale woman said.

"I'm his mother. Not you!" Alex hissed. "Change him back!"

"I cannot do that."

"W-We'll find a cure… _please_ …c-change him back! I want my _son_ back!" Alex cried out, feeling tears suppressed in her tear ducts begin to blind her vision.

"I'm afraid there is no cure."

" _What_?!" Alex exclaimed.

"The only way you can truly be with Holden," the fashionable woman began, "is to _join_ him."

"Join him?!" Pamela cut in. "You're a _crazy_ bitch! And they call _me_ crazy! The _nerve_!"

 _BANG!_

Alex gasped at the sight of a man with spiky black hair and red tips as Pamela collapsed. The man, Tristan Duffy, looked as pale as the woman did and was holding a blunt object with which he hit Pamela on the back of the head. She was completely unconscious, and looked at him as he spoke.

"Are you fucking her, too?" he asked crudely.

"Please leave, Tristan," the woman ordered with soft coercion in her voice. "I'm doing business."

He turned on his heels and walked away, but Alex looked to the woman, who was talking much more serious than she had been the entire time.

"Ma'am," she said. "I'm offering you eternity with your great lost love. What I wouldn't trade for a chance at that. Think about it."

"A-And what are you asking me to trade for it?" Alex asked, "and what's the price I have to pay to be like you?"

"Your undying loyalty," the woman said. "You'll be working for _me_. I am Elizabeth and I will give you the gift of eternal life in exchange for your undying loyalty from this day forth."

The woman remembered Pamela's prophecy, looking at Elizabeth with widened eyes as she remembered her words verbatim: _"with this solution, there is a sacrifice you must make. However, its effect on you will depend greatly on how much you are willing to give up to have your son back."_

She thought before making a decision, nodding slowly when she finally did.

"I…I will…I…" Alex stammered, thinking of how much Holden meant to her and even more so that she had him back in her life. "Yes. _Please_. I'll do anything!"

"As you know, birth is a painful process," Elizabeth said, beckoning the woman to her; as Alex complied, their eyes met. It was only then that she could see the soulless intensity in the vampy woman's eyes. "The transition will not be easy."

"Please." Alex was sincere in thought and action, her hands clasped as though she were praying in her lap. "I can't lose my boy again."

Elizabeth was frank: "You must surrender completely."

 _Shing!_

Out came a strange-looking, glove-like gauntlet with a blade at the index finger. It very much resembled the talon of a bird of prey. Alex was entranced, watching the woman slice into the flesh of her cleavage. The oxygen-depleted blood spilled out, and Alex leaned forward by order of a bewitchingly-coercive Elizabeth's subliminal facial expressions.

"Allow yourself to be ripped apart," Elizabeth continued. "Drink from me."

And Alex complied, desperate and still with longing for her son as she let the blood spill into her open mouth.

"You will feel like you are dying," the woman cried out in a moan, "and maybe you are, but from blood comes life…"

Alex continued to drink the woman's blood, rich with the virus her son had which kept him the same age as he was five years before.

"You will rise…and be reunited with your child," the woman continued, looking down as Alex finished drinking from the wound. With blood covering her mouth, she rested her head on the woman's lap, her eyes dreary and drowsy as Elizabeth's wound healed; the woman offered support by resting her head on top of hers as well.

"And this, ma'am," she finished as she patted Alex's back, "it for all of eternity."

* * *

 _John was dressed and dapper, prepared for an event with a mystery invitation. It was called 'Devil's Night', a soiree which Liz, the drag queen bartender, told him was one of the greatest events within a typical year at the Hotel Cortez. He learned it was held by a Mr. James March, an all-too familiar name mentioned by Iris._

" _Mr. March? You mean, James Patrick March?" John remembered asked._

" _The very same." Liz's voice seemed to drone as he smoked his cigarette in a posh, sophisticated way. "His annual Devil's Night soiree is the event of the season! Not something you'd want to miss!"_

" _What the hell is Devil's Night?" John questioned suspiciously._

" _Oh, sweetie," Liz smirked flirtatiously. "Devil's Night is the real holiday around here. If you think Halloween with plastic pumpkins and paper costumes, think again, because Devil's Night is when the_ real _ghouls come out to play. It is night of mischievous criminal behavior, which is why every year at this time, Mr. March holds his annual dinner event."_

 _The transvestite pulled out a piece of paper with a list of names, looking at the very bottom. "The guest list is trés exclusive, but you are invited to attend."_

 _Now, having put on the tuxedo provided for him by an unknown source on his hotel bed, he was on his way to the room across from Room 64, which was closed. John held the mysterious invitation so he could get a better view, looking down at it before opening the door to a scene with all-too-familiar figures sitting at it. It was candlelit and very formal, but the guests were dressed rather plainly._

 _A woman with greasy dark hair, absent eyebrows, a worn complexion, light brown eyes and an almost entirely denim outfit approached him with a nonchalant tone of voice to greet him._

" _Hey," she said rapidly, "hey, come sit next to me. Between you and me, you don't want to sit next to Jeff or John. They like 'em young and cute, like you." She snickered wildly and crudely, looking at a man with an erect back, blond hair and large glasses, who just stared down at the table. "Just keep your distance."_

" _No, Aileen." A voice cut in. "John will sit where his name card is. You know we like to do things formally around here."_

 _The voice sounded rather old-fashioned, much like an actor of the silver screen. He looked very well-dressed and seemed to be a very refined, well-mannered man. He looked to be in his late twenties with gelled, neat hair and a thin mustache on his upper lip. His suit was a fine tuxedo that probably costed him hundreds of dollars, but what caught John's attention were his eyes—they were so dark of a brown that they looked black, almost as if he had no soul. He had the convincing gaze of the devil himself, and the woman, Aileen, fought back with her sharp tongue._

" _Hey, suck my left tit, Clark Gable!" she hissed._

" _We are all here now. Delightful," the man said. "Please, everyone. Sit. There are only so many hours in the night." He looked to the detective, who was still at a loss of where to sit. "John, you're by the_ other _John. John, you're here. Ricky, here. Ah!" He exclaimed, pointing to a liquor decanter with a strange green fluid inside it. "Absinthe. It is our customary libation. To our special night and our new guest, John Lowe."_

 _The detective was confused, resting his arms on the arm rests of the chair; "what is this? Who are you all?"_

" _I'm March. James March," the refined man said. "I built this hotel."_

" _Wait," John interrupted. "How? The man who built this hotel died more than 85 years ago."_

" _This is my problem with police officers," March said, sighing despondently. "All you care about is evidence, all until that evidence no longer fits the narrative you need to be true, at which point the evidence becomes an illusion, a mistake. A trick." The man in the expensive tuxedo smiled and sipped some of his absinthe. "You've lived in my hotel long enough, John, seen enough evidence to know that what is impossible becomes very possible here."_

 _John paused with confusion, seeing March sit down and look at all of the guests present: "Now, let's all introduce ourselves."_

 _A heavy-set man with sparse, light gray hair raised his hand and began to speak: "I'm John too, John Gacy. I'm from Norwood Park, Illinois. I own PDM Contractors, and I'm also a member of the Moose Club. I mean, just because you got bodies buried in your crawl space, it don't mean you can't have a really terrific rec room and be a respectable business man."_

 _The man with the stoic, detached expression, blond hair and glasses looked to the other man: "Uh, my turn?"_

" _Okay."_

" _I'm, uh...J-Jeffrey Dahmer…from Milwaukee…"_

" _Oh, John, I think he likes you!" Aileen exclaimed with the same wild snicker. "And that is bad news for you. That's how he picks 'em. He finds the hottest guy in the room and the next thing you know—" The woman traced her index finger across her throat, signifying violent death._

" _Zodiac," March smiled, "they never caught you but I assume you'd be dead by now." This figure was entirely in black with a bag-liked mask with a white target painted on it._

" _Dickheads like you don't just retire from being assholes," the detective said, looking at everyone. "Y-You're all playing a joke on me. Gacy, you were killed by lethal injection over 25 years ago." The other John with sparse, light hair smiled and nodded. "Dahmer, you were murdered in prison and deserved it." Jeffrey stared down at the table. "Aileen Wuornos, you were put to death in 2002 in Florida, the tenth woman to be put on death row since 1976." The woman snickered and drank sloppily from her bottle of beer. "And I know you, because you're from my hometown. Richard Ramirez, the Night Stalker. You just died of cancer in your cell a few years back."_

" _I did," the man with black hair, chiseled features, and black sunglasses said._

" _What is this? Some kind of Halloween trick?" the detective asked with frustration. "What, are you actors?"_

" _I invited you here tonight to help you, John," March intervened. "I've watched you, and it saddens me because greatness is about vision. You have made yourself blind to everything but what your eyes can see."_

" _You need to listen to this dude, John," Ramirez said. "He is the master. I mean, he taught us all. He's a genius, like Galileo or Peter Frampton."_

" _That's why we come here every Devil's Night," the other John said. "It's, uh, like a tradition. It's a real honor to be invited. Only the ones of us who really took the master's advice gets an invite."_

" _Do you know why it took so long for the little piggies to catch me?" Ramirez asked the table. "Because one night I stumbled into this place, and I spent a few nights, and the master, he came into my room, and he beat the crap out of me, eh? And he told me that if I wanted to be a volume operation that I needed to be indiscriminate. Kill anyone. Your pattern needs to be_ no _pattern."_

" _Guess I was out sick that day," the other John snickered under his breath._

" _It's not funny, Gacy!" March barked, turning his attention quickly to the table. "We are the Mount Rushmore of murder. We have reputations, codes of conduct. I've told you how many times? Leave no evidence."_

" _I covered 'em all with lye," the other John explained slowly. "It's not my fault that the cop who used my bathroom was very familiar with the smell of rotting bodies. I told them- it was my Lhasa apso who piddled on the kitchen floor, but they didn't believe me."_

 _There was a silence; the detective just watched everyone pay devoted attention to the refined man in the expensive suit and thin mustache on his upper lip._

" _I built this hotel for the sole purpose of hiding the evidence," March said. "My chutes and ladders are marvels of modern engineering, John. Have you seen them?"_

 _John shook his head, but listened to him speak more._

" _Mr. Gacy here came to the Hotel Cortez when he was just a young man. I was living in Vegas, and I wanted to see the Pacific, so I got in the old Buick and drove out for the weekend and stayed here for six bucks a night. I showed him my secrets, and he learned relatively fast. But imagine what he could have accomplished had he really listened to me. He could have had_ way _more than just thirty-three bodies," the man explained._

Click!

 _John gasped to see that his right wrist was handcuffed to the arm of the chair. The other John had an evil smile across his face as the coolness of the metal cuff made his body shiver._

" _The handcuffs," he smirked. "Once I have them cuffed, it's pretty much all over."_

" _Let me go!" the detective ordered._

" _No need to worry, John," March smiled. "It's the absinthe, dear boy."_

" _When I was younger, a trucker picked me up hitchhiking," Aileen said, drinking her beer and flipping her hair back. "And that was before I knew how to take care of myself. That dick cheese drove me all the way to L.A., brought me to In-N-Out, and tossed me to the curb. It wasn't until I stumbled into this place and met the master that I knew I was really worth something. It's the first man that ever treated me with_ respect _."_

" _Jeffrey?" March cut in. "You're even more quiet than usual tonight."_

" _I'm just hungry," the man said eerily in a monotone._

 _Miss Evers, March's faithful maid, brought forth a salad plate for each guest, but Jeffrey seemed displeased, pushing it away and sounding rather rude._

" _I don't eat salad."_

 _But then the woman in the old maid uniform brought forth what looked to be an extremely drugged-out man with caramel-colored skin and matted black hair. The detective's eyes widened at the scene, knowing it portended the horrors to come._

" _See, Jeffrey? Don't I always take care of you?" March asked delightfully._

 _Jeffrey had the man sitting on his lap, holding him close like it were his teddy bear or comfort blanket. The detective's spine chilled at the man's words to the man under the influence: "please don't ever leave me. I want to make you mine. Make you part of me. Never freaking works though, because you fuckers always die, like, ten minutes later."_

" _Oh, poor, sweet Jeffrey," March cooed, admiring the sight. "When we met he was on a detour on his way back to Ohio from Miami where he ended up after being kicked out of the Army. I told him if you want to be a great killer, you must understand people. To hunt them, you must be able to get into their minds. I didn't think he would take it_ literally _."_

 _The detective looked to see a drill and bits being rolled over to Jeffrey, who prepared it by putting on the drill bit and making sure the device worked. There was drool emanating from the man's mouth, and the detective reached for his gun in his pocket with his free hand._

BAM!

 _Everyone just laughed, and the detective was shocked to see that Jeffrey had not been taken down by the bullet._

" _Nice shot, copper," the man said, taking a finger to the bullet wound and licking the blood off. "Don't you get that we're already dead?"_

Buzzzzzzz…

 _The drill bit went into the man's head, and Jeffrey took it in and out to make a good enough hole to inject acid into with a syringe provided. Once that was done, Ramirez shook his head at him and laughed._

" _He's not dead yet?"_

" _No, he's_ undead _. I injected the acid. He's mine now," Jeffrey said, holding the man close._

" _I look around and I see the definition of American success," March said with a smile. "They write books about you. Make movies of your life. Years after your death, people continue to be enthralled._ _You've made your mark in history. Like the Iliad, your stories will live on forever. I consider you all my equals. Nothing would please me more if you could stay and join me…for dessert!"_

 _Cheering and clamoring filled the room, Aileen being the loudest as a woman with kinky blonde hair, a leopard-print jacket, and messy dark makeup came in with a delirious man who was previously wearing a business suit._

" _He's flying on an eight ball of China White," she said—the detective immediately recognized her as Sally. "This will buy me a year of being left alone, right?"_

" _As always." March paused to raise his glass with a joyful smile, having Miss Evers hand each guest minus the detective a knife—the other John even had the face makeup of Pogo the Clown painted on his visage. "To us, the greatest killers of our time. This sacrifice bonds us together, and until the end of time."_

 _JAB!_

" _AHHHH!" screamed the man that was brought in as March drove a large carving knife into his abdomen. Aileen followed with a letter opener into his back, the other John with clown makeup slashed the side of his throat with a skinning knife, Ramirez caused damage with a small hatchet, and Jeffrey was there making a hole in the man's head. As they all clamored with excitement from the rush of killing, the detective was screaming, struggling to get out of the cuffs that held him to the chair._

" _NO! NO! NO!"_

"John?"

"NO! GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT! STOP IT!"

"HEY!"

 _SLAP!_

John's eyes opened, snapping back into reality to see that there was no so-called "Devil's Night" soiree where instead of a normal dinner party, victims were brought to the guests to be killed. Instead, the room was vacant, extremely dim, and the table was empty. He had fallen off his chair, and there were no candelabras on the table, not even a nice table cloth upon which to place murder tools for the killers present. There was no James March in his expensive suit, no Jeffrey Dahmer with his zombified sex slave, no Aileen Wuornos and her hysterical cackle, no Richard Ramirez wearing all black with black sunglasses, no John Gacy in the guise of his Pogo the Clown persona, and no Zodiac dressed in black to hide his true identity.

No one—it was all in his head.

The only other one in the room, he realized, was Angela; she had slapped him hard enough to get him back to reality.

"I…I have to save him!" John exclaimed in distress.

"Save who?" she asked.

"T-That man s-she brought in t-to kill! Please!" John exclaimed.

"What are you _talking_ about?" Angela asked with confusion, a hand to his rough, dark stubble. "I'm the only one here right now. Are you feeling okay?"

"I don't understand…"

 _John got a quick glimpse of the killers all taking turns stabbing the man, clamoring with delight as his blood spilled from his defenseless body. He let out a shriek of distress…_

"NO!"

"John! Tell me! What's _wrong_ with you? Have you been drinking?" Angela asked, shaking him out of his split reality.

"A little at the bar…" John seemed to slur now, making the likelihood of him being drunk more believable. "And…t-they gave m-me absinthe."

"Oh my god, John," Angela sighed with aggravation. "Are you _kidding_? Why did you touch that stuff?"

"Is anything real? Are _you_ real?" John asked.

"John…" the young woman said, "you're hallucinating."

She gasped to see something shiny out of the corner of her eye—it seemed as though John cuffed himself to the right arm of the chair he fell out of. Her jaw dropped, and she looked at him with concern.

"John, why are you cuffed to the chair?" she asked nervously.

"I…I…J-John G-Gacy did it to me…" he claimed deliriously.

"No…no…w-wait, who is Gacy?" she asked.

"I…I…"

"Wait," Angela said, separating the breast lapels on his tuxedo and reaching to locate the keys to his cuffs with her hands. John's chest rose and fell beneath her hand, and when she heard a jingle, she reached in and pulled out the keys. She struggled to put the key into the hole, and when she turned it, she rubbed his wrist just as it was set free from the metal cuff.

"Ah…" he groaned.

"I'm not going anywhere," Angela said as she helped him to his feet. "Come with me. I'm taking you back to your room."

 _As the two made their way out of the scene of the Devil's Night soiree, March looked at the young woman with resentment, gritting his teeth before returning to the festivities with the other killers._

* * *

 ** _a/n_**

 **I want to thank everyone (again) for reading this story! I'm happy that I have been getting a lot of likes and reviews, so keep those coming! If you have ideas, please send them in as well be it by PM or a Review. They could very well be featured in **_Façade_ **!**

 **So, to avoid any confusion about how it suddenly went to italics mid-story, I wrote it in this format to be similar to my dream sequences as they appear in my stories, but if you have seen S5E4, you will know that John is hallucinating the entire time he is at the dinner. So my writing style there reflects that.**

 **Anyways, stay tuned for more, and be sure to Favorite and Follow! **


	11. Chapter 10

_**~ chapter ten ~**_

"I never was an alcoholic. Just a control freak."

John had his collar loosened by Angela as they sat on the edge of his hotel bed. She had also fetched him a glass of water to help clear his system, and when he took a sip, he felt like it was beginning to work already. He had a few hallucinations on the way back to Room 64, but nothing like he was experiencing at the entirely imagined "Devil's Night" soiree. Their eyes met for a moment, and Angela gave a quick reply as she patted his back.

"Are you okay now?" she asked.

"Yeah," John said with a nod. "I…I just…it's been so long since I've gotten drunk. I think that's why I was like that just now."

"If you don't mind me…uh…asking," Angela began, "when was the last time? Can you remember?"

There was a silence; John took the opportunity to take a deep breath and try to remember his last time being drunk. He sipped from the water, which turned into a big gulp, before speaking.

"I always have…tried to stay sharp. Being a cop, that can be difficult even with the stuff I face every day on the job. It started like most days. Multiple homicide in Glassell Park. Dad here spent the year in prison for second-degree assault. We figure he couldn't take the pressure, so he poisons them all, and blows his brains out. It was sad seeing those children dead in the living room, but on the flipside, at least they died peacefully."

"Oh my god," the young brunette sighed, patting his shoulder comfortingly. "I can only imagine how awful you felt."

"Well…we learned later that he didn't actually kill his family," John continued. "His power had been turned off, so he brings in a portable generator so his kids can stay warm. It ran out of gas, so he came back from his night shift, and he found his whole family dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. That's enough to make a man shoot himself."

"Oh my god," Angela repeated, feeling a pang in her heart at picturing the scene he was describing.

"I had two kids at the time myself. It was Holden and Scarlett. I didn't make it back home for two days. Then the day I came home, I took the family to the beach. Some kind of desperate gesture to earn my wife's forgiveness, but then I realized she didn't know how truly traumatized I was. It almost worked…but…"

"But…what, John?" she asked, paying attention to his every word.

"We lost Holden," he said. "There was a carnival at the beach, and I remember putting him on the carousel. I still remember the color of horse. It was yellow. One minute, he's there having a fun time. The next, he's gone."

"That's terrible," she said.

"For five years, we believed he was dead. My wife had lost hope. It put a strain on us, and she even attempted suicide. I found her in the bathtub with slit wrists. I was the first to find her. I thought I was going to lose her," he explained.

"I'm so sorry, John." Angela frowned complacently, reaching for his hand to hold it. "I'm sorry all of that happened to you."

"Scarlett has since seen Holden. As for my wife, I have not heard from her since she gave me the divorce papers. I don't know if Pamela is right, either."

"What do you mean?" Angela asked. "The police psychic, or whatever she is?"

"Yes," John said. "Uh, I made an awful mistake calling her crazy."

"Why?"

"Because she's the only person helping me on this case, that's why," John explained. "At the same time, I question the validity of her visions but then there have been things she's been right about."

"Hm…like the time she said she saw divorce in your future?" Angela asked.

John's eyes widened suddenly—"what?"

"She told me that, but it didn't come from me," she said nervously.

"She spoke to you?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"She was going to question me about that addict who looked like a zombie," Angela explained, "but then she located a nasty mattress. Iris replaced it…and…"

There was a silence, but in all truth and verity, Angela was remembering that fateful afternoon, seeing Donovan slice his wrist and feed his dead mother, Iris, the blood that was rich with the life-giving properties that saved him twenty years before. Seeing her lips moving, seeing her eyes open for the first time in her eternal life, the way Angela screamed at the sight, was all coming back to her.

"What?"

"N-Nothing," Angela said. "I-I'm fine."

"You don't seem it."

"Look at _you_ and who's talking," Angela replied haughtily. "You need rest. Finish your water. It'll help."

"Well…tell me. Let's be fair," John inquired. "When did you last get drunk, Angela?"

"I can't remember. I was probably way too young to give a damn," she said. "I remember the last time I threw up, though."

"That's odd," John said. "That you can remember that."

"Well…I remember my teen years like it was yesterday. I'm twenty-four now, and I'm healthier than ever. I feel alive, but not whole. There's something I'm after but it is missing and probably way out of my reach," she explained.

"Those years seem so distant, and I'm only thirty-five," he said. "Why don't you get out of working here and reach for it?"

"Because I need to get by for now," Angela said. "I have spent years obsessing over myself, and dangerously at that. I was underweight for a lot of years because of stuff I did. I was bulimic. It was a shame to binge-eat and throw it all up, and I kept to myself about it. My boyfriends knew, though."

"You were bulimic?" he asked. "That's terrible."

"I was overweight as a child, and my mom was verbally abusive about it," Angela revealed. "The only one who got me was my neighbor, but when she died, things got worse."

"You don't ever have to worry about your weight…I…I think you are perfect the way you are," John said, leaning in a bit closer to tilt up her chin.

The kiss they shared at that moment was unrivaled among any other kisses they've shared. Unlike the crashing of lips that served as their first, it was gentle and soft. Angela broke it, looking into his intense blue eyes calmly as she put her hand to the stubbly, lower half of his distinctive face.

"John, can I ask something?" she asked.

"Yes?"

The young, dark-haired woman was hesitant, but the words escaped her lips: "do you still love your wife?"

John sighed, looking away for a moment. He did love Alex, yes, but after Holden went missing, their marriage was deeply strained. He had tried his hardest to support his family, even strictly separating that and work, but it never seemed good enough.

"I can't answer that," he said indefinitely.

"Huh," Angela muttered. "I see."

There was a silence between them, and she looked away; John just admired her dark waves and pale skin, her feline-like blue eyes and her rosy pout.

"I-I'm sorry," she added.

"No, no," John said. "It's okay."

"Well," Angela said, standing up and adjusting the coat over her work uniform. "I should be going. My shift is over. Be sure to rest, John. I'll maybe see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Angela," he said with longing in his gaze. As she left the room and closed the door, he laid back on the bed, his head on the pillow as he sighed. The ceiling, plain with a light fixture above it, seemed to fade as he closed his eyes for rest.

* * *

As Pamela opened her eyes, she found herself laying on a sofa in an unfamiliar hotel room within the Hotel Cortez. This was not Room 64, the one she was staying in, and the sensation she felt in the back of her head was unpleasant by all forms of measure. Her eyes seemed weary, and when she sat up, she rubbed her eyes and looked around. It seemed normal; no, _too_ normal, of an environment considering she had spent four hours unconscious from a rap the back of the head with a blunt object.

She stood up and stumbled, putting her hand on an armchair and the back of a sofa for support. There was a record player or phonograph playing statically, and she immediately recognized the tune as _Goodbye to Love_ by the band she loved and adored so much, the Carpenters. She sluggishly walked over to the record player, listening to the lyrics carefully through the heavy static and feedback:

" _All the years of useless search_

 _Have finally reached an end_

 _Loneliness and empty days will be my_

 _Only friend_

 _From this day love is forgotten_

 _I'll go on as best I can_ …"

As she made her way to a collection of shelves bolted to the wall, which displayed numerous vintage and modern art pieces, she listened to the distinctive Jimi Hendrix-like guitar solo as the next part of the song. Touching one of the art pieces, she tried to get a glimpse of who it may have belonged to, but nothing came; no visions, no sensations, nothing.

Her intuition was completely blank.

"Ugh," she groaned.

"Take any piece you like. None of it has any meaning for me," a refined male voice said. "You look like you need a drink."

Pamela slowly turned around to see a man in an expensive tuxedo, standing tall and erect with a small glass of lime green-colored absinthe in his square-shaped hand. He was quite handsome with a charming exterior, his dark hair in a classic male hairdo from the early 20th-century with a thinly mustached upper lip and intense, soulless dark eyes that were more frightening than charming, but extremely magnetic.

"W-Who are you?" she asked. "Have I met you?"

"I would remember you if we did meet before, but allow me to introduce myself," he said cordially with a sip of his absinthe. "I am James Patrick March. Born October 30, 1895. I built this hotel from determination and being at the epitome of success."

"I…I'm confused. I'm sorry," Pamela said wearily. "I…think you're dead."

"Indeed."

"It doesn't surprise me. Your name sounds familiar, too," she added.

"You may have heard from me."

"People died here, sir," Pamela said. "My partner and I are here to investigate."

"John?"

"Yes, how did you know?" she questioned.

"You're asking _me_?" March snickered. "Did that wrap on the back of your head warp your mind?"

"I was hit?" she asked. "Damn, it hurts. I…I can't even locate John. I can't see where he is."

"He left my party hours ago," March said. "He went off with some dark-haired hussy. Quite beautiful, but still very rude of him to just leave the party."

"What party?" Pamela asked with confusion, curious as to why she hadn't foreseen it with her psychic talents. "What about the other guests?"

"They're staying the night here," March said.

"Mr. March!" a voice called out along with the sound of whimpering and crying. "I found this one in the bar, sir. She was prostituting herself."

Miss Evers, the maid in close accomplice with the man in the tuxedo and someone Pamela had seen before, tossed the woman on the bed complacently. Her facial expression was detached, and the woman was tightly tied at the wrists and ankles struggling to get out of her confines. Mr. March just smiled at the woman in the vintage maid uniform and took what looked to be a revolver from her—Pamela went to the woman and tried to undo her ties.

"Oh my god," she muttered.

The moment her fingertips touched the binding on the woman's wrist was the minute March cocked the revolver and pointed it to Pamela.

"Get away, you," he hissed, his near-black eyes fuming. "There's nothing she won't do for a dollar. She's a waste of air."

"What the hell! Stop it!" Pamela said, approaching the man and trying to get the revolver away from him to prevent the woman's death. "What is wrong with you?!"

He gave up control, which made her face turn from fear to surprise.

"Why don't _you_ take her last breath, then?" he offered. "It's exhilarating!"

"No!"

"You know that _deep down_ ," he cooed in a sultry whisper, "you _want_ to kill."

"You're crazy!" Pamela exclaimed. "I'm _not_ shooting her, and neither are _you_!"

"You got to go out and grab life!" March barked, taking the revolver and quickly aiming for the woman on the bed.

 _BAM-splat!_

"NO!"

The woman who was ushered in by Miss Evers was now dead from a single shot to the head by Mr. March's revolver. Pamela let out a scream of disgust, sickened by the sight of splattered brain matter and broken skull fragments having stained the perfectly good linens upon which she had been laying before.

"JESUS!" she shouted again. "What the _fuck_?! You're a _psycho_! I could have you _arrested_ , you know!"

"Miss Evers?" he called, seeing she was still present as she obediently came to his request.

"Yes, sir?"

"Replace the linens," he ordered.

"Right away, sir," she said. "I'll get the ammonia. What a glorious stain!"

"Glorious, my ass!" Pamela shrieked. "I'm out of here!"

In distress, Pamela turned around and ran from the strange hotel room. She put out a hand to help her psychic senses locate Room 64 in the long, winding hallways that seemed to go in circles as she ran by each door and number—it was to no avail. Her psychic vision seemed totally dead from being hit so hard by Tristan hours before.

She kept running until she sought refuge in the elevator, which didn't seem to move at all as she pressed all the buttons. Was she stuck? Was she in any form of danger?

No one else was there—who knows? All she knew was that she was going up, gradually and slowly.

* * *

John had a lot of trouble sleeping that night; he felt like he was being driven wildly mad, like mad dogs eating and tearing at his brain with razor-sharp teeth and clawing at his psyche like nails to a chalkboard. He unwittingly clawed at his scalp, but when he finally opened his eyes to what was around him, he felt a strange presence behind him as he lay restlessly in his bed. Out of suspicion, he flicked on the lamp and as he looked to the ceiling, he felt a chill breath next to his neck.

Looking to his left, he saw no face but the face of Pamela, laying uncomfortably close and laughing hysterically, as if the best prank in the world was pulled on him.

He gasped and jumped out of the bed, only then realizing he was completely in the nude as he slept. _I don't remember undressing_ , he thought. Pamela turned red, laughing her head off until John finally said something.

"Where the _hell_ have you been?" he asked forcefully. "What the _hell_ are you doing in my bed? Your bed is over _there_!"

"Oh my god, relax," Pamela giggled. "I'm just messing with you."

"Why am I naked and you're not?" he questioned, noticing that she was dressed in her silky, cloud-print bell-bottom pajamas and an old white blouse made of gauze fabric.

" _You_ tell _me_ ," she said. "Here you are, stripping off your clothes and shit."

"I…I don't get it," John muttered. "Are you okay?"

"Oh I'm better than I've ever been," she said with a smirk, sitting on the other edge of the bed.

"You're not yourself. Have you been drinking?" he asked.

"No, but clearly _you_ have been. Absinthe, I see?" Pamela predicted, brushing her palm against the back of her head. "I mean, after that wrap to the head, my psychic vision was messed up but now it's coming back. Isn't it a miracle?"

"You don't get it, Pamela. I saw terrible things," John said, sitting on the bed with her on the other side.

"I did, too. You don't have to tell me," she responded, fixing the front tie of her old white blouse she wore for a pajama top.

"I couldn't stop them."

"Stop who?"

"Jeffrey Dahmer, John Wayne Gacy, Aileen Wuornos, Richard Ramirez—"

" _What_?!" Pamela asked incredulously and with utter confusion. "Damn, you really _were_ under!"

"I'm not joking," he said nervously, biting his lower lip and growing more frantic and distressed in his tone, "I'm dead serious. I _saw_ them! They stabbed a man to death, there was blood everywhere! Sally brought him in, and James March was there, and _he_ 's the killer! _He_ 's doing all this!"

That was it—everything compiled in his head, stressing him to the point of a small-scale breakdown complete with tears and clutching the front of his raven black hair. He felt Pamela's hand go to his shoulder, trying to console him as he wept and grunted, hyperventilating his way to calmness as he felt her strangely-cool touch against his skin.

"I guess I'm not the only crazy one," she whispered to herself.

"What?"

"Now, consider us even," Pamela added, "so tell me what you saw."

"I'm not crazy," he muttered.

"Just tell me, John. Get to the point," she ordered complacently.

"I…I was invited to Devil's Night. I was invited by Mr. March. When I came here, I found a tuxedo on my bed and I put it on and went to the room where it was taking place. It's n-not far from this room, actually," John began.

"Yeah?"

"Gacy, Dahmer, Wuornos, Ramirez and Zodiac were all there, Pamela. I shit you not. T-They had to have been actors…t-they posed as them pretty damn well," he recalled. "Dahmer was brought in a guy. He drilled holes in his head and put acid in his brain. Then Sally brought back a guy high off heroin and they all stabbed him. I couldn't stop them. Gacy cuffed me to the chair…"

"So…what next?"

"I…I felt someone slap me…i-it was that maid…"

"Angela?" Pamela asked.

"Yeah. Her," John concluded. "She brought me here. I…I think they all drugged me."

"The maid didn't drug you," Pamela said, "she helped you, but that isn't something you don't already know. You just told me, for christsakes."

"No…I…I don't remember what happened…I looked at her and saw that the room was dark and empty. It looked so run down. She had to uncuff me. Gacy did that," he added. "That man…I couldn't save him."

"Don't worry about it. Absinthe fucks with your head, John. You should know that more than anyone," she said, giving his shoulder one last pat. "You should have been where I was."

"Where?"

"Uh…I was hit on the back of the head," Pamela said. "I was knocked out. I didn't remember much, and I still don't, to be honest. I did wake up in a room, and it was weird. I didn't remember it. I hear that song… _Goodbye to Love_ …oh, I _love_ that song…"

She cleared her throat, crooning the song softly:

" _I'll say goodbye to love,_

 _No one ever cared if I should live or die,_

 _Time and time again_ —"

"STOP!" John screeched, startling his partner. "Damn it! _Please_!"

"Geez, relax," she scoffed. "It's a good song. Awful quality on the record player, too. I don't remember putting it on, either. I walk over to a shelf with all…these…uh, modern art pieces. I see Mr. March there…his maid brings in a hooker from the bar, apparently…h-he shot her. Brains went _everywhere_ , John…I'm not crazy. If I am, then you are, too."

"Jesus," he muttered under his breath. "What happened after?"

"I ran away."

"Where?"

"To the elevator. I…I don't remember much after that," Pamela said. "The elevator just kept going up and up, higher…it's weird because _this_ room, Room 64, is on this floor but I was going higher up, and I don't know how I got _here_ , either."

John just shook his head, looking at her with bewilderment. The fact that she was not aware how she got to Room 64 was beyond him, surreal; maybe she was not real at all? How did she come to her senses so quickly about forgiving him for outright insulting her? Was she going through the same mental turmoil as he was? So many questions were unanswered, making him think so much that his head began to ache. The splitting pain felt like a migraine, and as he reached down to find his boxers, he felt like falling over due to dizziness.

 _THUMP!_

"Ah," he grunted, feeling his body hit the carpeted floor with his boxers halfway up his legs. He struggled to pull them up, but didn't even bother to lift the band over his knee before calling for his partner to help him.

"I-If it's not too much to ask, please help," he said assertively, out of breath as he kicked a leg outward. "Pamela?"

There was no answer.

"Pamela?"

Still no answer, not even the sounds of her clothing moving against her form or the noise accompanying moving feet. He grunted with frustration.

"Pamela! Where'd you go?!"

The room was dead silent—no one was there.

When he finally got up, he rubbed his forehead and dug his thumbs into his eyes, covering his lids as he stood steadily on two feet and sighed. Once he didn't feel dizzy anymore, he looked around the suite of Room 64 and saw that nobody was there, not even Pamela. _There we go again_ , he thought, _was she even real? Is it the absinthe acting up still?_


	12. Chapter 11

**_~ chapter eleven ~_**

Two days later, after the one day off she was given in a while, Angela was making a usual stroll through the lobby with her cart of cleaning supplies. As she drove the cart by the front entrance, she looked to see Iris, pale and sickly with tears forming in her eyes, somberly walking toward her place at the front desk. Angela, with a look of concern on her face, stopped her and held out her arms as if to hug her.

"Iris!" she exclaimed. "What's the matter? Are you okay?"

"I…f-feel like shit," she groaned—Angela then remembered the day during that previous week where she had witnessed Donovan slicing his wrist open to feed his dead mother his blood. She still was ignorant to the truth behind his affliction, but knew that his blood contained a valuable attribute to vitality and youth.

"You seem to be walking better," the maid pointed out. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong is you asking me what's wrong," Iris snapped, looking at the young woman. "I just w-want to g-go to bed…" She held her stomach and grimaced her pale, wrinkled face. "Is that a problem?"

"Not at all," Angela said. "It's okay. Want me to—"

"No," Iris cut in, handing her the keys off her belt. "You take the desk."

The young woman's feline-blue eyes widened in shock, seeing the ring of old, worn brass keys being handed to her. She was hesitant to take it, and shook her head.

"W-What?"

"You heard me," her boss said. "Take them."

"A-Are y-you sure…uh, what about cleaning?" Angela questioned with her brows raised.

"I'm promoting you. Miss Evers got cleaning now. Then again, she always has," Iris said with a quick, sad smile. "I need to rest…take care of it down here…h-hide that maid uniform, too."

Angela sucked at her top teeth, her tongue running along the edges as she watched the newly-afflicted older woman waddle slowly toward the elevator, her arms swinging back in forth in sync with her legs. She seemed so miserable, even though her own son, her flesh and blood, saved her from the death he condemned her to.

"Iris?" Angela called out.

The woman slowly turned around to look at her newly-promoted employee, sighing with grief as she listened to her words of gratitude; "thank you."

With that, the older woman was off, pressing the button and stepping into the elevator as its doors opened to welcome her in.

* * *

Meanwhile, Angela had snuck home to change into a more suitable uniform for her new job. She kept tastefulness in mind if she was to be greeting hotel guests, so she opted for a white dress with a pencil silhouette on the skirt complete with a faux leather black belt at the waist and a short-sleeved pinstripe overdress that was open in front. She kept the same shoes as she did while working as a maid, and now felt obligated to let her dark chocolate waves free out of the ponytail she had usually worn. After brushing the tangles out carefully, she applied a light brown smokey eye with nude lipstick and a bit of mascara to finish off the look.

She returned within a half hour, considering her trip home the break for the day, and there already were her first guests being admitted as the receptionist. The two guests were a couple, and they were dressed as though they had been ripped from a thousand-like Instagram photo—hipsters, she thought, that hat is ridiculous—the man had been wearing a fedora with a beige blazer.

"Hello," she said with a shy smile. "W-Welcome to the Hotel Cortez. How may I be of—"

"We're wondering if you had any special rates for, like, influencers," the girl, an Asian with heavy eye makeup, said snottily.

"Influencers?" Angela asked. "What do you do?

"Uh, well, um, I used to shoot for _Entrez-Vous_ Magazine," the man of the couple, named Justin, said while making perfect eye contact with the new receptionist. "I heard that Will Drake took over, and he's liked a shit-ton of my Instagram pics."

"We would like a room," the girl added, "and a discount."

"I'm sorry, but no can do," Angela said assertively, already annoyed with the two. "No discounts for anyone. Full price. I know it's safe to assume you have it anyways. My boss would kill me otherwise."

The girl looked at her and scoffed, as if to say 'I can't believe she said that to me'.

"I'm so tired of the trick-or-treaters," Justin scoffed, adjusting his fedora. "Our neighborhood used to be kind of rad, but now it's just Strollerville. Everyone started pooping out kids. So many brats. The doorbell would not stop ringing."

 _Ding!_

Angela looked at him, watching him as he crudely tapped the bell used by the guests.

 _Ding!_

"It wouldn't stop!" Justin exclaimed with a sarcastic chuckle.

 _Din—_

She was even more aggravated, snatching the bell away from the man and taking a breath as she opened the reservation book Iris had used. She moved it back once she opened the book, handing them a pen.

"We just want to hide out and smoke and not deal with a zillion randos," the girl said, taking the pen and signing her name and check-in date along with that of her boyfriend.

"I understand," Angela said in a monotone. "I hope this hotel suits you."

After taking the key to a room on the third floor, Angela led them up to its location. Even just walking with them made her sick to her stomach, almost as if she were going to throw up. They gave off such a snotty, snobby vibe that did not resonate with her one bit. She looked behind her a few times, seeing the girl's nose in the air, and when she unlocked the door to their hotel suite, the first thing she heard was a complaint.

"No, no," Justin said with disapproval. "I want to stay in one of the rooms that Will Drake has redone."

"Wait," Angela said, "renovations? None of those took place yet."

"This is a hard no," the girl said, throwing her hands in the air. "I'm out."

"No, babe," Justin said, grabbing his girlfriend's hand and smiling persuasively. "Can we try and make this work?"

"Justin, you keep dropping us in these situations. I'm tired of it," the girl argued.

"Look, just tell me what I can do," Angela said with her hands outward, "and I'll do my best to fulfill your needs."

The girl went to the bed, lifting off a bit of the bedspread to feel the sheets underneath. Shaking her head, she turned to Angela and scoffed.

"Can we get, like, way better sheets?" she snided. "I mean, poly-blend? Are you serious?!"

"I'll see what we have, miss."

"And are these the only towels?" Justin asked, walking out of the bathroom with a large shower towel. "They're made of, like, sandpaper or something."

"I'll get more for you guys, if you want," Angela offered. "And I-I see this place is not too much to your liking, but…you know, complaining won't get you anywhere. I'll try my hardest to m-make your stay a nice one. Okay?"

Angela just looked at them and nodded, but the man and his girlfriend approached her in a menacing kind of way. She gulped and looked down at her feet, sighing and taking their taunts.

"Can you just, like, review all that we just asked you for? Like, out loud? We just want to make sure that you heard us right," he said rudely.

 _These fuckers_ , Angela thought, making eye contact with the both of them as she crossed her arms.

"Yes, I remember everything," she said firmly. "You wanted new towels, new sheets, and maybe some Chinese silk to wipe your asses with."

The girl in particular let her jaw drop at this blatant comeback for their indecency toward her at that moment. Before she could utter a word, Angela cut in.

"Anything else?"

No answer.

"Cool. I'll be back," she said, turning on her feet out of the room and closing the door behind her.

* * *

 _How dare they treat me like a moron_ , Angela thought to herself as she sat at the front desk later that day.

She was reading the _Los Angeles Times_ while at the desk, waiting for any guests to arrive and make reservations at the enigmatic hotel. On the front page, in an article that continued itself well into the grayish pages of printed, thin paper, was a picture of children running out of a local elementary school and surrounded by concerned parents and cops. The headline read: ' _Local School Evacuated: Bloodshed Unfolds_ '. It took her by surprise, but before she could even lay her eyes on a single word in the text, the phone rang.

 _Riiiinnngggg…_

She picked it up and answered; "hello, you've reached the Hotel Cortez. This is the front de—"

"Hey, can I order room service?"

It was Justin, the male hipster who had arrived with his girlfriend earlier that day. Rolling her eyes, Angela shook her head and responded, seeing Liz entering the vicinity wearing a peacock blue, sequined Nehru-top styled dress with black leggings and bright green Jimmy Choo wedge heels. She saw him put his hand on his hips, looking at her with a deep smokey eye on his eyelids.

"I'm in the mood for a plate of artisanal cheeses and a full-body red," he said. Angela got out a pad of paper and wrote down what he said, but also took out a complete menu of the hotel's offerings as she heard the girl speaking in the background.

"Oh, and get an order of grilled romaine," she said rudely, "and please make sure it's organic and non-GMO."

"Hold on," Angela said, writing down the last of it and checking the menu for the items. "I'm looking a-at the menu h-here and…uh, I'm sorry. We don't serve those things here."

"Well, just tell the chef to grill the lettuce, throw in a little parm, lemon juice, cracked pepper," Justin said suggestively; she knew he was not being so nice in his request.

"I…I can't do that. We don't have it on our menu," Angela explained calmly, "so what makes you think we have the ingredients for it?"

"Uh, what I'm hearing is," he cut in shortly after she finished her sentence, "that you're not even willing to try."

"That's not true. I've been catering to your _demands_ ever since you guys came here. _Both_ of you," she said assertively.

"In that case, um, I'm gonna make things really simple for you," Justin said snobbily. "There is a restaurant renaissance happening downtown right now, so all you got to do is pick up the phone, order out, and bring in some paté."

"Fine."

Angela slammed the phone on the receiver, slowly furrowing her eyebrows inward and bringing her hands to the front of her head at the same pace to grip her dark locks at the hairline. Her teeth grinded upon one another, causing her enough pain to groan as Liz approached the desk and shook his head.

"I could murder them," the young woman grunted furiously.

"What did they want?" the drag queen asked as he lit a cigarette, ceremoniously holding it between his middle and fore fingers.

"Paté," she said with frustration as she fixed her dark chocolate waves. "Do we actually _have_ it?"

"No. I doubt it. But come with me. I know how to get at those snotty brats," Liz said sassily with a devilish smirk.

* * *

Cat food—that was Liz's remedy for the two snobby hipsters staying at the hotel who were rude to Angela and made her follow their every demand. It was wet, moist, slimy, and smelled of fish and rotting meat. The two stood over the steel counter, and Angela nearly gagged at the awful smell.

"Eew," she grimaced. "Smells worse than shit."

"They'll swallow anything we offer, even if it's _this_ ," he said, taking a cake cutter and molding it to look like paté, topping it with a fresh garnish of parsley and putting water crackers around it in a neat arrangement. "There we go."

"Are you sure? Cat food? Won't they know?" Angela questioned.

"The real stuff smells bad anyways," Liz replied. "It makes no difference."

"I can only imagine."

"I gave Iris my little special somethin' somethin' earlier," Liz added.

"Was she okay?" asked Angela, looking down at the smelly mound of wet cat food decorated with parsley and water crackers. "I haven't seen her since earlier. She promoted me to her position."

"Excellent. It was in her best interest to do that," Liz said with praise and a clap of his hands.

"So…what _did_ you give her?"

"It was from the Countess' personal stash," he answered, putting a silver top over the platter of arranged cat food.

"Which is… _what_ exactly?"

"Blood," he whispered, leaning and making eye contact. "With a few drops of triple sec."

" _Blood_?" Angela was incredulous—"why blood?"

"You know how she was resurrected, don't you?"

"Well, yeah. Her son dripped his blood in her mouth," Angela recalled.

"More than that," Liz said, lighting a cigarette and pouring two glasses of mineral water for the unruly guests' room service order. "The Countess and Dono are infected with an ancient virus, and now Iris is as well."

"A _virus_?"

"Yes. This prevents them from aging and they can never get sick. They can live pretty long, too," Liz explained as he dragged on his cigarette. "You did know that the Countess is the owner of this hotel, right? Well, former owner."

"Y-Yes, I…I think so," she answered nervously with a nod. "So…I…I…"

"I know, you're confused," he said, "but it's not hard to comprehend."

"Do you have it?"

"No," Liz said. "But the Countess did help me through a rough time in my life. She saved me. You see me now, but I wasn't always Liz Taylor, hun."

"Really? So…" Angela said, "c-can you maybe…uh, tell me more?"

"I came here in 1984. It was a business trip," Liz explained, trying to recall details of his life. "How does a married man like me from Topeka wind up as Liz Taylor in the Hotel Cortez? I was married, and my wife's name was Tracy. She married me because she was thirty and needed to marry someone. She always said I had the weirdest taste in TV shows. I only married her because we were the same dress size. When I was home, I was like a man walking between the raindrops. There was no release from the constant burning."

"I see," Angela said with a nod as she began to roll the cart with him at her side, telling his story of transformation. "You must have endured a big struggle."

"Yes, hun," he continued. "I was a medical rep for Eli Lilly. It was a golden age for us. We used to schmooze doctors. We took them golfing, took them out for steaks, to strip clubs. I always had plenty of alcohol to numb myself, but the real release came when I was finally alone in my room. I was all about room service and a good night's sleep, but really…I was doing..." He looked down at his feminine attire, " _this_."

Nodding, the young woman continued listening as she rolled the cart for room service into the elevator, hearing his testimony of a man who hid himself from the world.

"For those first few moments in those rooms," he said, his voice turning to utter excitement, "I was _transformed_!"

"That sounds great. Y-You had an…uh, affinity for this…f-for a long time?" Angela asked.

"Oh yes. I loved when they delivered champagne. I told them to leave it outside," he smiled. "And there's nothing like whispering a secret aloud, if only to yourself. The slip, that fur, those tiny rooms…they were my escape. My freedom. Then…well…I met the Countess, the former owner of this hotel…"

"And then…?" Angela questioned.

"I was scared. No one had seen me in woman's clothing before. I asked her what she was doing, and told her to get out. She said…she had been watching me. She said…s-she said I dressed and walked like a man but…" Liz sniffled and wiped away his made-up eye, looking down, "with the blood of a woman. I…I had said i-it was my cologne…I-I was in denial…but then I broke down…she was right."

"So…y-you've always felt like this?"

"Yes."

"You never considered transitioning?" Angela asked.

"No. I never have…I figured…what's the point?" Liz asked rhetorically. "I remember she called me beautiful…I called myself ugly right in front of her. I remember what she told me exactly…"

"Which was?"

"'You don't beauty, you lack commitment,'" he clarified. "She offered to make me into the goddess I was meant to be and continue to be to this day. I was her living doll. She taught me how to do makeup, a smoky eye, like Donna Mills in _Knots Landing_."

Angela nodded.

"She asked me what my name was. My birth name is Nick Pryor," Liz explained, "but that wasn't good enough. I shook my head. The Countess christened me Liz Taylor á la Butterfield."

With full understanding of the situation, Angela even felt sorry for Liz as the elevator moved slowly up to the floor where the two crude guests were staying. Knowing there was more to the story, she continued to listen and empathize with the drag queen as he continued his heartwarming story.

"'Goddesses don't speak in whispers,' she told me, 'they scream'. But we weren't ready to scream yet. She sent me down the hallway for ice so we could celebrate with champagne. I never felt so naked in all my life. I felt amazing for the first time ever. I was Venus in the clamshell. I was a goddess born upon the world…until…my co-workers saw me…"

"I'm sorry," Angela said. "D-Did they be jerks about it?"

"Oh, they were assholes," he said, putting a hand to his balding forehead. "Calling me 'fag' and 'gay' and accusing me of having AIDS…I pushed them both away from me, and told them to go away. Then the Countess…she stepped in…s-she needed to feed anyway so…she slashed their throats…right in front of me. I was scared."

"She…what?"

"Yes. She protected me," Liz said. "In fact, I'm going to pass to you some conventional wisdom she taught me." He cleared his throat and he just listened "We have two selves: the one that is compliant with society, and the shadow. Ignore it, and life is forever suffering."

She just looked at him, her eyes widening slowly as the elevator dinged and let them off at the corresponding floor. She rolled the cart with Liz's help onto the geometric, over-the-top carpets. She sighed.

"If you weren't given that….v-virus," Angela concluded, "she hired you instead?"

"Yes. I never returned to Topeka," Liz revealed. "I did send money to my children until they were eighteen. My wife and I don't even talk."

"Y-You _left_ your children?" she asked; _how could he_ , she thought, _what if they were young and needed him?_

"It was for the best," he said. "If they knew their dad was a drag queen, all hell would've broken loose."

"I'm sorry, but dads leaving their children is a sensitive issue for me," Angela said assertively. "My dad abandoned my mom when I was only two. It fucked me up. I'll speak to it."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, no," Angela said, "it…it's _okay_. A-At least you provided for them."

"I sure did," Liz said, "and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

When they reached the room with the two unruly hotel guests, Angela pushed the cart close to the closed door and leaned to knock on the wood. The man, Justin, came to the door and opened it, letting her cart the small trolley of food into the room. The girl, who was sitting on the bed watching a news segment of the same happening she saw in the _Los Angeles Times_ , suddenly walked up to the cart as if in a rush and opened the platter, removing the silver dome with a grimace on her face. _I told him they'd know_ , she thought to herself.

"Where's the romaine?" she taunted. "You're kidding!"

"I told you both that we don't have that on the menu," Angela said, crossing her arms defensively. "I made it very clear to you both."

"So no green vegetables?" she asked.

"No."

Angela's eyes widened slightly, looking down as she saw the Asian girl take a water cracker and some of the cat food, arranged as paté, onto it before putting it in her mouth. She was shocked: "at least you got the paté. It's actually decent. We're a little high on edibles." The girl giggled. "He's not usually _this_ awful."

" _Awful_?" her boyfriend snapped. "You know who's being awful? Will Drake is being awful, with this puke brown carpet and that cracked tile in the bathroom! I get it, you can't refurbish _every_ room at the _same_ time, but how about trying to start with hiring some competent waitstaff? We should've gone to the Ace!"

Now Angela was officially infuriated— _I've had enough of these two_ , she thought to herself, reaching to place her hand on the other side of the cart only to find a sharp knife there for the guest's use on their food.

"That place is teeming with hot young Dominicans and Harajuku fabulousness," the girl added with an annoying giggle of contempt. Angela's facial expression was stoic and blank, hiding her anger as she grinded her jaws so much it hurt.

 _Ka-ding!_

The knife fell, almost hitting the girl's foot and striking a toe on her open sandal.

"You almost sliced off my toe!" the girl said, looking down and seeing a slight scratch on the side of her hallux—Angela looked at her and shook her head, leaning to pick up the knife and put it beside the food on the cart.

"I-I'm sorry, I—"

"Are you, like, retarded?" Justin asked meanly.

"It was an accident!" Angela snapped subtly. "I didn't mean it."

"Uh, I think it was deliberate! Are you serious?!" the girl shouted. "You've been hostile ever since we checked in."

"And you've _both_ been—" She couldn't finish her sentence, but Justin cut in and looked at her crudely with honey-brown eyes on a handsome exterior.

"That's reckless endangerment," he crooned rudely. "We can make sure that you _never_ work again." He gave her a light shove on the shoulder, making her blood boil so much it burned her, making her body shake with pure hatred and odium, a fire so intense and like never before in her life. "It's really a matter of public safety. You are clearly a danger to socie—"

"AAAHHHH! FUCK YOU!"

With Angela's scream of disgust and ardent hatred, she took the knife in her hand and continued to scream, swiping the blade of the sharp knife across her throat, slitting it clean across and cutting through her tracheal tube in the process. As warm, fresh blood fired out of the fresh wound and stained both her clothing and Angela's, Justin yelled in distress and saw the crazed, almost psychotic fury in Angela's face as he tried to run away toward the door.

"OH GOD! _HELP!_ SOMEONE!" he screamed, trying to open the door before Angela pinned him stomach-first against it and plunged the knife deep into his back, making his cry out in excruciating pain.

"HELP! HELP ME!

"CRY ALL YOU WANT, ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU!" Angela screamed, moving the blade and slicing sideways as it was embedded between two of the ribs protecting his lungs. She spat on the side of his neck and plunged the knife right behind his heart, impaling every inch of cardiac muscle in his chest as she raged. "YOU THINK YOU'RE HIGH AND MIGHTY! YOU'VE SUFFERED _NOTHING_! YOU WANT THE WORLD! YOU CAN'T HAVE IT! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU AND YOUR PATÉ AND GRILLED ROMAINE! FUCK YOU AND THE HIGH HORSE YOU RODE IN ON…"

 _Knock-knock-knock…_

"FUCK YOU…DIE!" Angela screamed, spitting in the fresh corpse's hair and jabbing the knife blade in and out of his back even as she heard the door being knocked on the other side.

"Open the door!" cried a familiar voice.

 _Iris_ , she thought, _must be_.

So she complied, and as the door flew open, the fresh, bloodied corpse of Justin fell down and Angela continued to maul and maim the body beyond recognition. Even though she noticed Iris standing there in horror at the rage the former maid was channeling into the body of the unruly guest, she continued to stab and slice, all until she felt her boss' strong arms pull her away.

"NO! NO!" Angela screamed.

"Stop it! _STOP_!" Iris screeched. "Give me that knife!"

When the older woman snatched the knife from her employee's hand, Angela collapsed back on the wall of the other side of the hallway, vaguely watching her boss take a step further and slit the man's throat and feed off the blood that rushed out. As tears fell from her eyes, she wasn't realizing it because she suddenly became catatonic and speechless. _What have I done_ , she thought to herself, _what have I done?_

She watched Iris feed, unable to even speak after realizing what she had done, and when she finished, her face was covered in sanguine fluid, looking at Angela with such a stare that it was ridiculously invasive.

"What the…"

That was it—Angela broke down in a crying fit, a spell of pure remorse and regret. Tears fell down her blood-stained face as she sobbed hysterically, putting her reddened hands to her eyes to try and wipe away the tears. When she felt arms holding her, she buried her face into their shirt even though that was stained with blood, too. The familiar sensation of the back of her hair being stroked could be felt accompanied with Iris' voice, which sounded low, maternal and tender.

" _Shh_ ," she consoled. "It's okay…it's okay…I got you...we're going to clean you up…"

* * *

Iris managed to find a spare outfit for Angela to wear once she was finished washing the fresh, dried blood off her skin and out of her dark brown, wavy locks. Iris did not have as much on her, but she splashed water to her pallid, wrinkled face to rid of the blood from her feeding off Justin. The shirt and plain vest she was wearing just so happened to be black and red, which camouflaged the blood stains quite well.

As Angela stepped into the shower, she let the water run down her body and wash away the stale sanguine fluid, using the shampoo deep in her scalp to wash it out. However, when it came time to soaping her body with Ivory, she noticed the water changing color and not due to the blood—it was a strange, murky brown that looked almost like pale diarrhea as it came out of the showerhead. She backed away slowly, her nose hit with a foul odor too gross to describe.

"Eew," she said with disgust. She reached down to bravely shut off the faucet, small groups of soap studs still attached to the lower half of her body as she grabbed her towel and dried off. She changed into the outfit provided for her by Iris, consisting of slate gray capri-style pants with a button-up tunic identical in color. Her shoes were thoroughly cleaned of any blood splatter, and as she put them on, she left the bathroom of the suite Iris had taken her to in order to calm her down. Angela had not said a word since shedding her last remorseful tear—she was too much in shock to realize she had killed not one, but two people out of pure anger and frustration. She walked out, seeing Iris leaning back in the lounge chair across from the sofa in the suite.

"All better?" the woman asked.

No answer, but Iris sighed complacently and shrugged. She had a bit of blood in the corner of her mouth still, which caused Angela to just stare, fixed on the stain to her pallid, wrinkled skin.

"Don't worry," Iris added. "I got to feed, and I think they deserved it."

"I…" Angela began, walking over slowly as she fiddled with her fingers, "I…I, uh…n-never k-k-killed anyone before…ever. Never ever…n-never had the…uh, urge…t-to kill…never…"

"Sit down," she said.

Nodding, Angela sat down on the sofa across from the lounge chair, erecting her back to be perfectly straight as see stared back at the woman, who in turn looked at the suite door, opening to reveal Liz in his feminine, flamboyant attire. He came in with three glasses and a bottle of fine wine, closing the door behind him and placing the tray on the coffee table.

"That was the Grenache blend the Swedes never finished," Iris chuckled, watching him pour the glasses of wine.

"I guess I came around to it," Liz replied, handing her a glass before looking to Angela. "I brought an extra. You _are_ old enough, right?"

"I'm twenty-four," she said blankly.

"Well, here," he offered; she took it and put it to her lips briskly. "This should calm your nerves, especially after what you did."

"I…I'm n-not going t-to be arrested, a-am I?" Angela asked worriedly. "I…I didn't mean to…I-I was angry…really, _really_ angry…I…I—"

"Stop whining," Iris said firmly. "You're fine. You won't be arrested, Angela."

"Don't you get it?" Liz asked, taking a seat right next to the young woman while reaching a hand to fluff her dark hair. "It's coming time in your life that you need to stop taking shit! Scorch the damn earth before you. You already started, teaching those hipsters some manners."

"Manners?" Angela asked, taking a gulp of the sweet, saccharine wine. "They're _dead_!"

"It's ironic, but…I never truly learned how to live until I died," Iris confessed.

"Huh?"

"I remember _yo_ u," Iris said, looking at Liz and pointing to him with her glass of wine in hand, "saying my contraction of the virus was a moment of transplendent rebirth. There was nothing exciting about it. Give me a goddamn break."

"Well, you seem a bit fine about it now," he answered, sipping his wine and lighting a fresh cigarette before taking the first drag.

"Yeah, but it doesn't change anything," Iris said sadly with Angela's full attention on her. "This world holds nothing for women like me. When you're my age, men look right through you, unless they want something. It's not just them, it's everyone."

"Iris," Angela said, looking straight at her boss while holding her wine glass, "y-you don't need to f-feel that way…I…I care about you, and Liz does, too."

"You don't understand," Iris protested calmly and quietly, shaking her head. "You're invisible, unless you can give them a key, or an…extra g-goddamn pillow. Ask any one of those guests upstairs who checked them in, and they wouldn't remember a single detail. It's ironic, isn't it?"

Liz cut in, a beam of bright optimism and hope in his voice shining like a ray of the sun: "You never know when you'll get lucky, honey."

"Maybe," Iris nodded.

"You might try a little violet eye shadow," he suggested with a coy smile of optimism. "It works for me every time. Maybe I can get the Lancôme girl at the mall to give you a makeover?"

Iris finally smirked, looking at her two co-workers and friends as she drank from her wine: "but this is good, too."

As Liz giggled and snapped his fingers with delight, the three sipped their red wine almost simultaneously. At that moment, Angela recalled the nasty brown color of the water in the shower, looking to Iris and sighing worriedly and catching her attention in the process.

"There are chutes for the bodies," the older woman said, putting the bottom plate of the crystal-clear wine glass. "They have been built in here, some weren't in use for years. I can show you where to dump them. You won't be in trouble."

"Well," Angela said with a nod of agreement, "if that's the case, can you show me the water source for this place? T-The shower water turned brown and smelled bad."

"Whatever it is, let's hope it's not a major taint in the system," Iris said, gulping down the last of her wine, which had a unique, iron-like taste in the last sip.


	13. Chapter 12

**_~ chapter twelve ~_**

 _One week later…_

John was seated in front of his superior's desk, the chief of the Los Angeles Police Department, and knew right off the bat he was displeased with him. He ruffed the front of his shiny, short black hair and furrowed his brow inward as he leaned forth in his chair. The chief had his hands clasped ceremoniously on his desk and sighed before speaking assertively and calmly, keeping an impersonal tone.

"Do you want to explain to me what happened with you last week?" the superior officer asked, his cold, hard eyes glaring at his subordinate.

"Uh, they-they must have drugged me…uh…I…I didn't remember much…" John answered wearily, trying to recall what happened to him at the Devil's Night soiree.

"Uh…yeah?" the chief asked indifferently, opening a folder in front of him with content including John's personal written testimony. "Let's talk about the suspects…uh, you listed here…a…uh, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Ramirez, Aileen Wuornos?"

"No, no!" John exclaimed, "it wasn't really them! Of course it wasn't! That's who they claimed to be!"

"It was Halloween, detective," the chief sighed as he rolled his eyes. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe they might—"

"Yeah, of course it occurred to me!" the detective's voice shouted, elevating as he fought the urge to stand from his seat. "That's NOT what this is!"

"Okay, so what is it?"

"It's, uh…" John shook his head, the image of the innocent man high off heroin being stabbed repeatedly by the infamous serial killers at the soiree. "M-Must be…uh, some kind of, uh… a copycat b-blood cult." He paused and tossed his hands in the air indifferently. "I-I don't know, you call it what you want to. It was people who are recreating or are continuing the crimes committed by notorious killers from the past." He stood up and began to pace rapidly. "March…t-there was a guy. One guy called himself March, James Patrick March. You just check out the history of the hotel. That's the name of the guy who built it."

The chief just formed his face into a scowl, looking at his subordinate as though he had a hundred heads: "And you…had _dinner_ with him?"

"I…I was in a room with a guy who claimed to be him, a guy who I think is responsible for the five dead bodies on the wall in my office!" John exclaimed.

"You think he's The Ten Commandment Killer?"

"I do," John confessed. "I really do. W-We need to get a…uh, warrant, and cadaver dogs, a forensics team." He paused and took a breath, pointing out his finger aggressively with the hopes that his tone and ardent words would help him persuade his boss. "W-We need to rip those walls apart, down to the studs if you have to, because THE TRUTH IS IN THERE!"

There was a silence, and the chief's face was still in a strange scowl. Nearly shaking his head, he listened to John's next addition of words: "Pamela can help us, too, and I'd put my reputation on the line for it, sir!"

Another silence ensued, but this time, it filled the office. It was eerily uncomfortable, to say the least. John plopped his bottom back into the chair and let his cold, icy-blue gaze project toward the chief of police, seeing him wipe the shiny part of his bald head back and forth solemnly. It were as though he were removing a hat in respect at a funeral. Finally, the detective spoke up.

"W-What?" he asked calmly. "What's wrong?"

"Pamela," the chief said. "We found her yesterday morning."

"You… _what_?" John was incredulous with confusion, but listened.

"We…we got complaints from the hotel about the water tasting bad and being discolored," he explained in further detail. "We…we had the plumbing company still with us. T-They had called us to the scene…t-they found her face down in the water tank in the roof. She was bloated…h-her autopsy is this Friday, but…the forensics team…t-they already could see she's been dead a week."

As he watched the chief of police rise from his seat and toward an old TV set in his office, John's jaw dropped with shock. He couldn't believe it—Pamela was dead.

"I…I don't understand," he muttered, "I saw her. I saw her less than a week ago…s-she was alive…"

"No, she's not. She's dead. Believe me, we at the LAPD are sad about her going," the chief said. "She was quite a girl. We have surveillance of the last time she was seen… _alive_."

 _Click…_

As he turned on the TV to a bunch of loud static, the chief of police slid an oddly-shaped tape into the old, 90s-era VCR that had been collecting dust for some time in the police chief's office. John got up and walked slowly to get a better look at the screen to see the interior of a familiar looking elevator he immediately recognized as the one in the Hotel Cortez.

As the video progressed a few seconds in, he could visibly see Pamela's strawberry-blonde locks waving about as she ran into the elevator. At first, he could see her pressing all of its buttons quickly in distress. She seems to be waiting for something to happen but, for some reason, the elevator door didn't close like normal. John continued to watch, his jaw dropping gradually with each second as he sees Pamela start to look around, as if she is hiding from someone who is clearly not pictured. Eventually, the surveillance video shows her standing outside of the open elevator doors, leaning forward and waving strangely contorted hands as she looks to be talking to someone or something—yet no one is pictured in front of Pamela. She then returned to the interior of the elevator and pressed a strange button that wasn't even on the panel of floor buttons, and the door closes, bringing her up higher and higher until reaching a certain point where it could no longer do so.

He watched the surveillance footage, seeing Pamela's final appearance as she walked off the elevator and onto the mysterious top floor in question.

"I…I can't believe it," the detective muttered sadly.

"You'd stake your reputation on something like _this_?" the chief asked rhetorically. "I wouldn't. Your reputation has been shit for a while."

John was surprised to hear this—"what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means I probably should never have signed off on that marginal psych evaluation you received five years ago after your breakdown," the chief said, turning off the old-style TV and going to the window of his office facing the desks and cubicles outside in the large collective office.

"T-That was _different_!" John hissed. "Our son had been taken. I was under a lot of stress! I bet it would be the same if you lost your son, chief!"

"This job _is_ stress, John. I thought you understood that," the chief said turning around and sitting back at his desk and seeing John still standing there with a gradually-worsening, contemptive look on his face. "I'm sorry, but I have to do what's right for the department."

John was speechless: "You're _firing_ me? After _all_ this work I've put into this case?"

"Your pension will still be safe."

John shook his head, taking out his police paraphernalia including his gun and his badge, slamming it on the desk and gathering his other belongings before leaving. His eyes directed toward his now-former boss, and his voice was direct and stern.

"Nothing is safe." He gulped hard. "Nothing."

* * *

Many changes had come to the everyday life of Alex Lowe after she was transformed into the same kind of creature her son had been made into. Elizabeth, the Countess, had given her the flower of eternal life, which she had given to a child dying of staph in turn. At work, she even found herself feasting voraciously on the blood bags freely given by donors in the back storage room. Her craving for blood was more animal than ever before, and as she stared at her pallid reflection in the mirror of the Countess' vanity, she noticed herself not as plain-faced and miserable anymore. Her skin was now smooth like marble, and her golden hair was piled up in a Gibson-girl hairstyle with curls pinned to her head and a few stray strands falling on the back of her neck. Her dress, once belonging to and provided by the Countess herself, was raven black with a high collar and translucent long sleeves. To complete the look, she wore black leather mini-boots that went to the ankles.

"That dress fits you so well," she heard, knowing it was the enigmatic, mysterious Countess. "It's always been one of my absolute favorites."

She turned and nodded, seeing her beloved son, the tow-headed Holden, by her side. The Countess had the hand with her strange, gauntlet-like glove with the talon index finger on his shoulder, and she turned to him and spoke maternally: "Holden, doesn't your mother look pretty? Give her a little kiss."

The little boy ran to his mother, and Alex was overjoyed, so much so that she had to suppress tears as she crouched to his level and held her arms out to hold him close. His hair smelled like the uncanny aroma of lavender, reminiscent of the days when he was a baby and a healthy young child.

"Mommy," she heard him say, "you're just like me now."

"Yes, baby," Alex smiled, putting a hand to her eldest's face. "I'm just like you."

"Does that mean you'll stay with me forever?" he asked.

"As long as your mommy obeys the rules," Elizabeth interrupted, "she can stay as long as she likes."

Alex looked up at the Countess, who gave clear instructions as she stood directly behind Holden and put her hands on his shoulders. "It's very simple. You'll care for the children. You'll bathe them and keep them out of harm's way as their new governess. The old one was terrible for years. I should've removed her long ago…" Then Alex watched as the talon-like appendage on the Countess' gauntlet gently brushed against the neck of the child, making a subliminal threat with her next statement. "Of course, if you feel this burden is too much to bear…"

"No!" Alex exclaimed, hypnotized by her influence. "No, it's no burden at all."

"Marvelous. Then it's settled."

She let Holden go, and he went back to Alex and held her hand tightly. _Thank god_ , she thought, _I would be stupid to betray this woman. She gave me my son back_.

"John lives in the hotel," Alex stated nervously, alternating her dark blue eyes down and up as she admired Elizabeth's pure white dress. "I haven't told him anything. W-What if he sees me?"

"You'd be amazed," the Countess expressed, "at the wondrous possibilities that can begin with a simple hello."

With a chuckle, Alex looked down at her beloved son, but saw the Countess lean forward to look down at him, giving him an order: "Now, Holden, I believe it's past your bedtime, darling."

"B-But Elizabeth," Alex interrupted, feeling uneasy at the thought of another woman telling her son what to do. "We've only had a minute together."

"You misunderstand, Alex," she said eerily. "You and Holden will have _forever_ to be together."

Within moments, Alex found herself descending the entirety of the building interior length through a series of stairs led by Holden. He kept a firm grasp on his biological mother's hand, a strange warmth between their cold, pale skins as the continued to step down the way further and further until they got to a hard, gray industrial door that opened to an abandoned swimming pool. The room was blindingly white, but before Alex were not just four glass coffins of the children she was now the nanny for, but one for her very own in a larger size.

"It's time for bed, sweetie," she said.

"But mommy," he interjected, "I want to be with you, in your bed."

"Uh…"

Looking back at the oversized coffin for Alex's use in her new job, she nodded and agreed, leading him over with no thought or care of what the Countess could have thought about it. Lifting the glass panel lid, she let Holden in first before going in herself, closing it over them as they stared into each other's identical blue eyes. Alex was mesmerized by the moment, seeing her Holden safe and content in her arms once more, even as they fell asleep with pure bliss.

* * *

Liz was finally happy, and for the first time in almost three decades. Yet he was extremely guilty.

Why? Tristan, the Countess' latest mild obsession, was in bed with him.

The two, scantily clad after having made love, were laying in the bedroom of the transvestite's suite. Liz took a fresh cigarette from his metal container, but when he tried and struggled to get a steady flame on his lighter, Tristan made use of body language to offer lighting it for him. Liz took a drag and laid back on the pillow behind his scrawny back.

"Why is it so good with you?" Tristan questioned lustfully.

"Because you're an orphan," Liz joked, smirking as he blew the smoke from an exhalation of nicotine. "Orphans love girls like me because it's like Mommy and Daddy are both in the room, loving you to pieces."

Tristan just giggled boyishly, biting his lower lip and smiling with delight at his lover's joke.

"Oh. I got you something." He watched Liz reach down and grab what looked to be two classic titles in hardcover copies of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ and _Wuthering Heights_. Tristan smiled at Liz, who presented them ceremoniously to him. "Just to get you started. The basics. Oh, you're going to _love_ Wilde."

"Wow." Strangely, Tristan often came across as a prissy, self-entitled narcissist, but with Liz, it was different. "Thanks, Liz." He added a chuckle, and his partner listened to him. "I don't think I've read anything in years that didn't have the month and a picture of Jennifer Aniston or Kim Kardashian on the cover."

"I never did any real reading until I moved out here," the transvestite confessed with a sigh and puff of his cigarette. "Part of it was all the free time at the desk, but I also think you can't shut down one part of yourself without shutting down the whole thing. And when I let the Liz out, I could see and feel and taste. And love."

Tristan felt the urge to ask a pressing, loaded question: "do you love me?"

"Oh I don't know," Liz answered after a moment of brief silence. "I think so, but…g-god _damn_ it, who can tell when you're so damn handsome?"

"Oh…" Tristan sounded a bit discouraged. "I-I think I love you."

"Sh!" Liz snapped suddenly, putting his finger to his nude lips. "Don't tease me."

"I'm serious," Tristan said with more assertive force. "When I come down to the lobby and see you, it's like you're genuinely happy to see me.

"I believe you," the transvestite said, a hint of sadness and solemnity in his voice. "When _you_ come down, it's like…it's like it's…Christmas morning for me."

"I mean, no one's ever felt that way about me before. Ever." Tristan just stared at Liz with his penetrating blue eyes. "No one's even thought I was smart enough to give _real_ books to."

Liz scoffed complacently, shaking his head as he put out his cigarette on the ashtray, listening to him continue; "And you want to know the weirdest part? When we screw, I swear, I've never come harder in my life."

"HAHAHAHA!" Liz cackled, slapping his thigh gently as he heard him continue.

"Uh, I'm not gay or anything, either," he said, seemingly in denial. Liz, however, felt differently.

"You're not gay for being with me," the transvestite sighed, laying on Tristan's shoulder and smiling shamelessly at his next words. "Inside, I've never felt like a man…I-I'm a _girl_. I'm a hetero girl, Tristan."

"Oh…" He nodded.

"Thank you for seeing the girl…"

At that moment, the transvestite got emotional; tears began to run down his heavily-blushed cheeks as he sat up and wept softly. He bit his lower lip, feeling Tristan's smooth, strong arms around him.

"Hey…" he interjected, hearing Liz sob softly with guilt and shame. "Why are you crying?"

"Because I _do_ love you. I know this doesn't end well. It shouldn't. Not after what I've done to the Countess," Liz wept, his eye makeup being ruined in the process. "I feel so terrible doing this…b-because she gave me everything. It's wrong what we're doing to her."

"How can love be wrong?" the former male model asked. "If she could just see us together, she'd understand."

"I hope so…" Liz sighed tearfully, sniffling and wiping the remainder of his tears away. "I really do."

* * *

The following afternoon, Angela had been at the front desk, waiting for any new guests to check into the hotel. She was dressed very casually, but in good taste with a sky blue button-up blouse, navy blue wide-legged slacks with a faux leather belt, kitten heel pumps and to complete the look, soft makeup and a black headband to hold back her dark brown waves. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Liz making a grand entrance as he alighted the elevator, his sequin-adorned outfit floating about him like a dream. She was quick to notice that his blush looked a bit more excessive than usual, or otherwise it was what she had expected—a natural blush that would come from being around a crush or after experiencing a happy event.

"Liz," she finally said, calling out to her in a quiet, forced hush; his heavily made-up eyes directed toward her as he made his way over, clasping his hands on the desk.

"Hello, Angela," he smiled. "It's beautiful out. I was going to take a walk."

"W-Wait," she said, stopping him with blatant eye contact. "Y-You seem…a…bit more…uh, _happier_ than usual. Is something up?"

"I'm in love," he confessed with a smile.

Angela's jaw just dropped, her glossy lips parted in a sweet grin of delight: "oh, that's wonderful, Liz! Congratulations!"

"For the first time in my life, I have found _true_ love," he repeated, this time in a more hushed tone. Angela wondered why this was, but remembered that she was the one initiating the quiet tones in their voices.

"Well…uh…let me ask. I don't want to be a jerk," Angela said. "Man or woman?"

"It's a male," Liz said, smiling with his chin in his hand with his arm propped up on the desk. "His name is Tristan. He's young. He's beautiful. He's _exquisitely_ damaged. He's mine…well, mostly."

Angela gasped, immediately recognizing the name and that it was that of the male fashion model she had met on the runway that night at the gala hosted by Will Drake. She recalled the unspeakable actions he had done that night, snorting cocaine at his dressing table and making an obscene sexual gesture to her before going on the catwalk and drinking and doing crazy things just for the publicity. She had never seen him again after that night, but she just looked at Liz and bit her lower lip.

"T-Tristan Duffy?" she asked. "Is _that_ who?"

"Yes…" he sighed, looking down sadly.

"Wait, what's the matter?" she asked, patting his shoulder and noticing his sadness.

"I…I have not told anyone at all about this, Angela. I am telling you because I trust you," he revealed. "T-There actually is a problem."

"What?"

"He is the…latest obsession of the Countess, Angela," he confessed.

Angela just cocked up her full, arched brows. " _Elizabeth_? Is that—"

"Yes, the one I told you about." He sighed, shaking his head. "S-She doesn't love him."

"What makes you…uh, think that?"

"Because she measures the passing years by the change in hemlines. If I am _really_ honest with her, if I tell her from the heart what we mean to each other, she will understand," Liz said with optimism, but his tone soon changed, " _or_ she will rip the heart right out of my chest, and I'll know when it's time to run."

Angela was slightly intimidated by this, her feline-like eyes widening as her pitch black pupils shrunk to give the azure color more space to fill her orbs. She looked at Liz, seeing his Egyptian-like makeup adorning his lids with excessive purple eyeshadow, and pictured the subject of their conversation. She had never met the Countess Elizabeth, but she seemed to be a very fearsome character, at least from Iris and Liz's descriptions. Nodding with comprehension, she looked to Liz and squirmed.

"Well…you do what you feel is best," she told him. "Let me know afterwards how it goes."

"Thank you," he said with gratitude as he began to walk away. "You're a doll."

Angela giggled slightly as Liz went back to lean over the counter, kissing her on the cheek and waving playfully as he strolled off and back to the elevator. Within moments, Angela looked to her right and gasped at the sight of Donovan, dressed in a plain white pinstripe suit and his dark hair slicked back, with a woman of color by his side. Her eyes widened slowly, seeing his penetrating, icy gaze directed at her before she could focus on the woman of color.

She was silently outraged by her choice of hair and clothing, but Angela took in every detail considering this woman was beautiful and without a sign of aging on her dark caramel skin. Her ebony hair was long and kinked out, extremely teased at the ends, but what caught her attention most was the woman's gaze; it looked almost black, merciless with anger and resentment. She was wearing a patched fur coat over a blue strapless jumpsuit and a gold necklace and earring set. To be polite, Angela waved, but didn't smile.

"Uh…e-excuse me?" she called out to them. "Can I help you with something?"

She could hear Donovan whispering—"the Countess doesn't know about her."

"Uh…hello?" Angela repeated.

Donovan and the strangely-dressed black woman looked in her direction, and she felt intimidated as she felt their presences draw ever nearer to her.

"Why isn't my mother at the desk?" Donovan asked rudely.

"Uh…s-she promoted me? She didn't tell you?" Angela asked, trying to get him to recall.

"Iris is our inside person," the black woman said vengefully.

"I-I don't understand."

"Missy, do you know where Room 33 is?" the woman asked.

"May I ask your name?"

"I am Ramona," the woman revealed, "if you… _really_ must know."

"What's so good about Room 33?" Angela asked.

"Not even close, sugar," Ramona retorted, taking out a hunting knife with a large, sharp blade; the brunette just stared in shock, her lower lip trembling with trepidation. As the sharpened, serrated steel gave off its gleam of bloody fatality, Angela's feline-eyes were free of blinking for a moment, just staring in both awe and fright as she felt her face grow cold. Ramona just giggled, but Donovan just felt worried, a bit intimidated himself by the woman of color.

"Aw, what's wrong?" the woman asked with sadistic sarcasm. "Don't tell me you've never _killed_ before. Your heart is racing _way_ too slow, now…"

 _THUD!_

With Ramona's biting words and sharp tongue reminding her of the incident with the hipsters, Angela immediately fainted, passing out cold behind the counter. Donovan tried to get behind the counter by opening the waist-height wooden door, but Ramona stopped him with her tone.

"Leave her there. We have business to take care of," she snided. Donovan ignored her for a minute and crouched down, putting her head in his lap and looking down at her.

He removed her black headband and moved the stray, dark waves away from her pallid forehead as he gazed upon her unconscious beauty. Her lashes were full and black, and her glossy lips were pink and pretty. Ramona just put her hand on her hip, but Donovan interjected and contradicted her; a scowl replaced her scornful expression fairly quickly.

"We need to take her with us."

"What use is she to us?" Ramona questioned with a shrug. "Besides a feeding session."

"No…" he protested. "I…I don't want to kill her. That's not why we are here."

"We are starting in the basement," Ramona reminded, "to get rid of those kiddies."

Donovan, picking Angela up bridal style in his sturdy arms, looked at her nervously and then down to the brunette's lovely sleeping face, still pallid from lack of blood flow to her brain.

"What's the matter?" the black woman asked, waving the knife around. "Going soft on me?"

"Well…y-you want me to help you…kill _kids_ , Ramona," he reminded her timidly.

"Oh, well, I _might_ tear up," she speculated indifferently. "Then again, you don't give two shits about those kids."

"It's not about them," Donovan retorted, going on the elevator as it came down to collect the two and the unconscious Angela.

"But you know when I stab at their little hearts, I'll be stabbing at _hers_ ," Ramona said as the doors slid closed. "You're not over her, still."

"And _you_ are?" he contradicted as Ramona pressed the button. "You're obsessed."

"Fine." Ramona had had enough of his pussy-footing. " _You_ go upstairs and wreck her penthouse, but before you do, go sniff her panties. I'll take care of the bloodsucking little bastards myself."

"I need to make sure this one here is safe first," he said, referring to Angela.

"Ugh," she groaned. "Fine."

The door slowly shut to Ramona leaving the elevator to the floor below the ground, and within moments, Donovan could almost hear a stir come from the previously unconscious Angela, who realized she was being held in a bridal-style pickup. Looking up, she gasped and nearly fell out of his arms, but his grip was too firm and strong.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, quite unusual based on her first impression of him.

"W-Why am I in an elevator?" she questioned sluggishly. "What happened? T-That woman had a—"

"Yes, I know," Donovan cut in. "She had a knife. We are getting our revenge."

"Wait…" she asked, her form still in his arms. "P-Put me down."

"Why? I'm taking you to a room to rest," he said.

"No, no," she protested more firmly, her feline-like eyes persuasive. "Put me down."

As he set her to her feet, he held her for a moment by the sides to make sure she was balanced, and when she was, she looked up at him curiously. Her chocolate brown waves were a soft mess, and Donovan looked at her as she spoke.

"Who are you getting even with? I don't understand," she said.

"The Countess," he replied vaguely.

"I…uh…I see…"

She immediately thought of Liz and his affair with Tristan, claiming he was his true love. _Oh no_ , she thought, _do they have something to do with this? Is Liz okay? I hope he is._

 _Ding!_

As the elevator beeped to the ground floor, Angela looked to Donovan and shook her head, heading for the door as it opened; the man was clearly puzzled.

"Wait…"

"N-No, I need to go right now."

* * *

Liz had, in fact, informed Elizabeth of the affair between him and Tristan, her newest acquisition. As he entered the room, she could feel her anger burning within—but she still kept an eerily calm demeanor, while the transvestite sat nervously next to her on the sofa in his hotel suite. He turned his bald head downward, but looked up at Tristan hopefully as he walked toward the credenza to pour drinks. The countess' emerald green gown followed her as she got up and went to him.

"Who wants a drink?" he asked.

"I'll get it."

Elizabeth was stern, and Tristan went over to stand next to Liz as he let his former lover pour a strange, purple alcoholic beverage for them both. Handing them each a glass, she began to speak in her eerily calm voice, a seductive rasp to the sound that entranced Tristan and Liz.

"When you are what I am," Elizabeth began, "you don't feel things the way normal humans do. An emotion is like a flavor in my mouth. I can taste it. Joy tastes like strawberries. Hate is like ice chips in a martini. And love is like…it's hard to describe…it tastes like rosewater." Liz watched his employer as she continued rambling. "I enjoy them all except for one."

"W-What would that be?" Liz questioned nervously, his manicured nails timidly tapping the sides of his glass.

"Betrayal," Elizabeth replied coldly, "which has the taste of the char on a piece of burnt meat."

"You told her!" Tristan grunted, looking at Liz, who began to grow more tearful with guilt as minutes pressed on, dragging like a laundry bag against a shaggy carpet.

"I did, Tristan…I-I needed to," he wept, "y-you don't understand."

"He did," Elizabeth said, seeing Tristan stand up and face her like the man he always claimed to be. "Ironic, I must say. The one in the skirt has more balls than you."

"What do you expect, huh?" Tristan sassed haughtily. "You think I'm going to waste my life crying over _your_ broken promise? I know I'm dumb, and I'm just a model, but I _know_ you!"

Liz watched frightfully, fearful that the Countess would hurt him or worse as he continued to rant.

"It's not that you get _bored_ and move on, because that is the _point_ of the whole thing, anyways!" the former male model spat. " _That_ is your orgasm. You collect us and create us and get us addicted to the light of your love just so you can _take it away_! You _feed_ off the heartbreak, knowing full well that we're out there, suffering over _you_." He paused, staring right into the Countess' light brown, spellbinding eyes. "Well, NOT ME! I was made for MORE than that." He looked to Liz, his next words sincere: "For a _real_ love."

Elizabeth kept calm, looking at Liz as he pleaded with her, standing up gracefully in his skirt and walking straight into Tristan's embrace.

"Please, Elizabeth," the transvestite begged tearfully, "after _all_ I've done, let me have _just this one_? I will not lie when I say I do not think you _really_ love him, at least not like _I_ do. You know me. You _made_ me. I belong to you, but understand that this is my _one_ chance at it." He paused, sniffling but maintaining eye contact. "Time passes for me, not you. You can live forever and see whomever you wish. It means nothing to you. You know as well as _anyone_ that we all just get _one_ great one in our lives."

The Countess looked to her faithful employee, his heavily made-up eyes looking up at her tearfully, slightly smudged, but then she looked at Tristan, totally changing her tune.

"Is this what you want as well?" she asked him.

"Yes." Tristan nodded affirmatively.

The Countess leaned forward and hugged the transvestite, who was delighted by her final say: "Fine. You may have him."

"Oh, THANK YOU!" Liz exclaimed with a grin larger than life and tears of joy. "You don't know how grateful—"

 _SLASH!_

As the Countess let Liz go, she swiftly spun on her feet and swiped the talon of her glove across Tristan's throat, slitting it clean open and allowing his blood, rich with the ancient virus, to spurt out like water from a street hydrant. The former male model found himself choking violently as some blood went into his windpipe and down his lungs, drowning him in the sanguine fluid as the exsanguination also killed him. As he fell to the floor to his death, Liz found himself screaming, running to his fresh corpse and crying over it loudly.

"NNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"He's yours." The Countess was spitting her temper like venom from a cobra. " _You_ bury him!"

Liz was still in shock, and he watched her leave the hotel suite, licking the talon clean of Tristan's blood as he found himself sobbing and crying to oblivion. His one true love, dead on the floor, his corpse bathing in his own blood, was now the pillow upon which the transvestite cried and cried. He found himself screaming for the help that would not actually help. Tristan was dead and gone.

"HELP! OH _NO_!" he sobbed. "PLEASE! _WHY?!_ " Now he felt himself choking. "ANGELA! SOMEONE! OH GOD, HELP!"

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **So now you all know Pamela's fate. Okay, so I'll give a shoutout to whoever knows the answer to this:** _which famous hotel death inspired Pamela's death in the story?_

 **Please continue to leave Reviews with feedback or ideas, and be sure to Favorite and Follow!**

 **Thank you everyone! Stay tuned!**


	14. Chapter 13

**SHOUTOUT goes to ** NikkiFoxy86 **for being the first to correctly guess the inspiration behind Pamela's fate in the story. The case of Alisa Lam was a crazy one, and still unsolved to this day, three years later. Phew...without further ado, enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _~ chapter thirteen ~_**

That night, Pamela could have sworn she had heard the sound of a screaming man as she roamed the halls of the Hotel Cortez, aimlessly and with her eyes glued to the path in front of her. The sounds of footsteps and laughing children and more screams muddled her thinking as she stopped to take a break. Her legs weren't tired, but even in death, her psyche was extremely disturbed by this place.

 _This is fucking with my head_ , she thought, _and John isn't in Room 64. Where is he?_

When she rested her back against the left wall of the hallway, she looked down and saw two beautiful blonde women coming down the hallway in perfect sync. They each were wearing hats, but they both looked different in the face. Pamela focused on one, her psychic abilities immediately picking up Swedish heritage as she saw her dressed in a gray graphic t-shirt, black skinny jeans, ballet flats, and layered necklaces with a black fedora to top off her look. Her hair was golden in color and wavy, and there was a smile in her face that seemed deceivingly delightful.

The other looked similar, her soft face composed of light blue eyes and a naïve countenance. Her hair was styled in hairspray curls with a light straw floppy hat atop the crown of her head. She was dressed more provocatively than the young woman next to her, with short shorts made of denim, a white tank top tucked under the top buttoned band, and a floral kimono top as an outer layer and a fringy hem. Pamela smiled at the nostalgic-seeming outfit piece, but not at what they said—in fact, it creeped her out more than anything.

"Can you show us to line at Fast and Furious?" the one with the black fedora asked in a Scandinavian intonation—her accent was thick, and her English was slightly broken.

"Uh…what? I don't know, never been there," Pamela said frankly.

"We are lost in this hotel for so long," the blonde in the straw-hat added in a worried tone. "Can you help us?"

"I can say the same," the police psychic said. "Who are you?"

"I am Agnetha," the one with the straw-hat said, "and this my friend Vendela."

Vendela was the one in the black fedora, and Pamela immediately knew this; her delightful smile made itself known, making her feel unthreatened and safe around these two perfect strangers.

"So…what happened? Are you needing help? I think the elevator is down the way," Pamela suggested.

"You're never going to see Vin Diesel in 3-D because you can't leave this hotel," a voice said.

Pamela turned around, immediately recognizing the man from the fashion show with the vampy lady in white—Donovan. He was dressed in a black button-up dress shirt with casual slacks, walking toward the three women and staring Pamela up and down as if she were some eccentric freak. His penetrating icy-blue eyes caught her attention, and his hair was slightly matted and not in his usual pompadour.

"Uh, c-can I help you?" the police psychic asked.

"I'm talking to you all, actually," the handsome, pale-skinned man said.

"I told you, Agnetha," Vendela said to her friend in a whisper, "we are dead."

"Why do you think you're dead?" Donovan questioned, putting his arms over chest.

"Because everything I put in my mouth tastes like chalk," Agnetha answered.

"I've been getting that, too," Pamela said in addition to the Swede's answer.

"I love food," Vendela said with a miserable whine.

"We'll find a way out," Agnetha said to her friend, taking her arm. "Come."

"Nope." Donovan looked at them, his voice stopping them from turning their backs to him. "Until you find a purpose, you'll be stuck in an unbreakable chain, repeating yourselves over and over again."

Pamela took a moment of silence to think, using her psychic talents to decipher what he meant—"it's the power of the hotel, isn't it?"

"Indeed. Makes you lose your compass," he explained.

"No shit," Pamela sassed, adjusting one of her gaudy, large rings. "I sensed a murder because two guests were being total assholes to the room service girl."

"You lose a sense of yourself," Donovan added with a nod, "of anything, but there are those who have broken out of that cycle.

Pamela put out her hands, closing her eyes and getting attuned with her surroundings. Among the disturbing screams that muddled her mind and the sound of giggling children, she managed to get a feel for what he was thinking in regards to his statement. The two Swedes and Donovan watched her place her hands to the wall and gasp, reciting her visions aloud as an energy came through via her psychic senses.

"I…I see a woman," she stated softly, running her hands softly over the worn, aged wallpaper pasted to the wall in the hallway. "She was…large…and her name was…" She closed her eyes and let it come to her: "Cara…a-an elementary school teacher."

"Wait, I thought I was the only one who knew about that," Donovan cut in.

"I see her…s-she wanted someone to love her back. She came to the Cortez…and…" She sighed sadly, the image of a straight razor coming to her mind's eyes, "slit her wrists…it was a long time before anyone found her body. And…she was…like us."

Agnetha and Vendela stared at each other, and then to the police psychic—"she was?"

"I…I can sense her energy, but she is not here anymore. S-She found her purpose," Pamela explained thoroughly, the visions of an obese, dark-haired woman with excess arm fat dressed in a white short-sleeve nightgown came to her mind.

"Cara enjoyed terrorizing the hotel guests," Donovan said, proving her visions true. "She was quite fond of the pool until they drained it."

 _The pool_ , Pamela remembered, knowing it was where she saw the glass coffins where the children were kept.

"That's why there are just glass coffins down there?" the police psychic asked the man.

"What?"

"Oh wait a sec," she added. The vision of the transvestite bartender, Liz, and a woman in black with her blonde hair in an Edwardian Gibson-girl style came to her mind, seeing a sledgehammer held as it beat mercilessly against the glass sarcophagi.

"W-What…is going on?" Agnetha asked in her thick Swedish accent. "I…do not understand what is happening."

"I do. The coffins were destroyed. Why?" Pamela asked Donovan.

"Ramona was right," he muttered, "I don't give a shit about those kids."

"I know you don't," Pamela said, "that explains why you didn't stop them."

"Sir," Vendela interrupted, catching his icy eyes on her as she spoke, "if we find our purpose, we can leave the hotel?"

"No," he said, "You don't get to leave. Never."

"Say it isn't so," Pamela said, sounding sarcastic.

"All you get is a reprieve from the hamster wheel. Eternity can be tedious without something enjoyable to break up the day," he explained, pacing back and forth in the hallway with the ghosts of the three women before him.

"W-What about you?" Agnetha questioned sadly, feeling sorry for him. "What's your purpose?"

"I lost mine when I lost her," he said solemnly, and enough to catch the police psychic's attention.

"Wait a minute…"

Pamela, putting her hands in front of her toward the icy-skinned man, felt her fingertips fade through the shoulders of his shirt. Donovan was confused, looking at her strangely as she gained visions of what exactly he was implying when he said he lost his purpose—it came to her as clear as day, every vision of the event and every exchange of words.

* * *

 _ **Five weeks before…**_

 _Donovan was in shock—having just burst open the doors to the bedroom in the penthouse high up on the building, he felt himself growing more and more furious as he watched his lover of twenty years, Elizabeth, in bed with the male model, Tristan, from the fashion show held by Will Drake. His icy, light blue eyes looked at her with extreme jealousy and hurt, but then to the spiky-haired model with pure hatred. He saw Elizabeth pull back the silk sheets and slip on her slippers and put on her Chinese-patterned bathrobe._

" _Tristan," she said calmly to the man in bed with her, "would you give us a minute?"_

" _Yeah, sure."_

 _Elizabeth made her way to the doorway in which Donovan stood, and his hatred just turned to pure odium, and his pain turned to numbness as he gave a light chuckle._

" _I can't_ believe _you turned him," he said, suppressing tears so heavily that they never even fell. "He's a stupid_ trashy _model."_

" _And_ you _were a pathetic addict dying on a filthy floor," Elizabeth sassed in a hasty whisper. "I didn't want to hurt you. I still don't." She made her way past him, the scent of rose and hyacinth following her trail as Donovan caught the scent he knew so well. "There's no reason this has to end badly."_

 _His eyes widened, and he closed the doors to the bedroom they had shared for twenty years as lovers. He then proceeded to make his way to the credenza, where Elizabeth poured herself some cognac from the decanter into one of the smaller-sized, exquisite glasses made of fine crystal._

" _Are you throwing me out?" he asked hopelessly. "W-Why?"_

 _She ignored him._

" _I love you," he added._

" _And I love_ you _," she said finally, tired and seemingly bored with him, "but you will learn that it isn't our precious virus that makes you, who you kill or who you screw. It's the heartbreaks. The bigger, the better. I know better than any of us."_

 _She poured an empty class full of cognac and handed the drink to him, casually and as if nothing at all happened right then and there, smiling as she gave another direction for him: "I'll let you pack your things."_

SMASH!

 _The glass handed to Donovan shattered on the floor as he pushed it away, suddenly grabbing the pale woman and pinning her to the empty part of the credenza's surface. He could feel her shapely legs snaking around his waist, grinding her hips slowly against him to try and calm his temper. His hands squeezed the sides of her head, nearly having her hair in a firm grip as he seethed relentlessly._

" _You said," he grunted through gritted teeth, "when you brought me back from the brink of death, that it was the CLOSEST thing you ever had to a spiritual experience. Is THAT how you felt when you made him?!"_

" _Honestly," she muttered softly while making genuine eye contact, "it was one of the most erotic moments of my life."_

* * *

Pamela frowned, looking up into Donovan's eyes and shaking her head. He just stared back, knowing full well that she could see what had recently happened to him. At the same time, she could sense his confusion.

"I'm so very sorry for you," she told him. "Now…you seek revenge."

"I…do, but…how do you know?" he questioned.

"I'm psychic. I also can see someone else in your near future. You know her," she said to him.

"Psychic?" Agnetha asked. "W-Wait, I…want you to see for me, too."

"I only saw how he lost his purpose," Pamela said, turning to her fellow ghost and reaching for the Swede and letting her hands rest on her face, closing her eyes as she did not see the purpose she had to pursue, but the ultimate fate she met with at her death.

The visions presented to her by psychic sight let her see Agnetha, who was extremely pale and weakened, locked in a cage-like iron maiden with her head set straight to prevent her from struggling under the iron bars. The image of a young tow-headed boy sucking on the wrist of the dying woman came to mind, and shocked her, but as she heard exchanges and her cries for help, more came into place.

* * *

" _Help! Help!" the Swede was shouting._

" _Shut her up!" the voice of an older woman scowled. "No one wants to hear her! Did you forget we have cops under our roof staying here?!"_

 _It was Iris, the front desk lady who checked her and John in that day when they began to investigate the strange murders leading them to the hotel._

" _They're off at work," another female voice said; it was Sally, the heroin addict. "They won't be back for a while."_

 _Then, Agnetha's whimpers fell silent—she was completely dead, bled out by the towheaded child who sucked the life from her vivid blue veins. He turned his head to Iris and frowned, tapping his tummy with his palm—it was Holden._

" _I feel sick," he whined. "She tastes bad."_

" _That's because she's dead," Iris answered. "Stop it."_

* * *

"You died…being sucked dry?" Pamela asked, her stomach full of the pangs of nausea at the thought of her blood being sucked and drank completely from her body.

"I…I…"

"And you," Pamela said, looking to Vendela to make an inference regarding her death, "you must have suffered some kind of blood loss, too."

"I…I…my throat…" she replied, tracing her fingertip over the skin of the front of her neck and showing her a hint of what happened to her.

"Slit throat…" Pamela whispered, looking at the attractive woman. "B-By who?"

"A woman…in white…" Vendela said, struggling to get her English correct. "Red gloves, a tie hat, and…a claw…it slit my throat."

"Wait," Donovan said, "that was…Elizabeth."

 _Elizabeth_ , the police psychic thought to herself before speaking: "wait, you _both_ were at that fashion show!"

"Yes."

"That was her? S-She killed you, Vendela?"

"Yes."

"Oh dear…" Pamela nodded in understanding, looking at the three before her and stepping away to assess the situation, knowing he was going to get even for what this woman did: "and you plan for revenge?"

"With Ramona, yes," Donovan said, "but I don't think you can help."

"Why the hell not?"

"You're, uh…a ghost," he responded.

"I've heard better excuses while I was alive," Pamela grinned jokingly. "You'd be surprised. Then again, I think you have more hope with a special someone, anyhow."

"Who?"

"That new girl at the front desk," Pamela said suggestively, "Angela is her name."

"I-I haven't seen her in hours. Where is she? D-Do you know?" he asked, suddenly getting frantic at the sound of her name, remembering her lovely appearance.

"Two floors down. There's been a death," she stated vaguely. "But not her own."

* * *

Liz had remained in the room with Tristan, crying his eyes out as he returned to sit on the edge of the bed in his hotel suite. He covered his messed-up face, smudged kohl, mascara and all, to avoid looking at the hours-old, stiffened corpse covered in a generous amount of blood at the wide, deep wound in his throat. Even his aged hands were covered in dried, clotted blood, but he didn't pay any mind to it. He sobbed, knowing full well that the love of his life was now gone, slaughtered mercilessly for his betrayal to Elizabeth. He suddenly heard a knock at the door, he looked up with beet red eyes, not knowing how to feel be it angry or frightened.

"G-Go away!" he shouted, still sobbing.

"Uh…Liz?" I-It's Angela…"

"Y-You c-can't be in here…I…I…"

 _Crrreeaaaakkkkk…._

The door was still open and unlocked, much to his surprise, and he saw Angela peek in gingerly. He was shocked to see that she had overlooked Tristan and looked straight at him instead as he sobbed his heart out over the loss of his love.

"Liz?"

Angela then turned her eyes down to the horrific sight, her feline-like gaze widening at the sight of a dead Tristan, arms sprawled out on the floor like he was nothing more than a ragdoll. His hair was matted and stuck together with the blood that had spurted from his throat, and his clothes were saturated in the red, sanguine fluid. Angela quickly slammed the door shut and leaned her back against the nearest wall, putting her hands to her mouth and looking at Liz, who sobbed and whined loudly.

"I…I told her…" he choked up.

"About…how you…loved him?" Angela stammered nervously.

He nodded, and without any further hesitation, the brunette ran to the edge of the bed and comforted Liz, who cried on the shoulder she offered him to continue crying on. Angela got some blood on her light blue blouse, but she didn't mind it, not after the event with the hipsters and how she murdered them out of pure rage and annoyance.

"It's okay…I…I am so sorry, Liz," she told him.

"I loved him…s-she said that…h-he was mine and…I could have him…and bury him!"

He wept so hard his head ached, and Angela just stared him straight in the eyes, seeing his makeup entirely ruined and his trademark Egyptian eye shadow smudged across the bridge of his nose and down to his cheekbones.

"I can imagine…but…w-what do you want to do?" she questioned. "I…I don't think you should, uh…p-put his body down the chute…"

"I want the Countess to pay," he said with an unusual temper in his voice not typical of his normal behavior. "After what she just did to me…"

"Then I may have a solution, Liz," Angela offered.

He took his hands away from his face, looking at her with the most solemn, serious look she had ever seen on him. She saw his lower lip tremble, the smeared nude gloss gathered in the corner of his mouth as he finally began to speak again.

"Y-You do?" he asked.

"Yes. We need to see Donovan," Angela said, standing up and looking down at the newly-decomposing body of Tristan. "He has a plan."

"W-Will Iris be involved?" he asked hopelessly.

"Yes, but…" Her feline-like blue eyes stared down at the festering wound in Tristan's open throat, "first order of business…w-we need to…uh…"

"I don't care," Liz said. "The chute is all we have. I-I cannot leave to make arrangements at a funeral home. The Countess won't pay, and—"

"You know what?" Angela rhetorized with aggravation, " _FUCK_ the Countess! He deserves a proper—"

"Keep your voice down!" Liz shouted at her. "She could be roaming these halls, seeking to hunt me down!"

There was suddenly a wilding beat of her heart in trepidation, thinking of what she had heard about the enigmatic Countess, Elizabeth. The room was struck with silence minus the sound of small flies starting to fly around Tristan's body. The silence lasted for all but a moment, but Angela looked to a mournful Liz and sighed, whispering softly.

"First, we have to do something about _him_ ," she hushed, referring to the corpse on the floor. "Second…we go to Donovan."

So the two embarked on their pursuit to dispose of Tristan's body, helping each other lift his stiff, repulsively-smelling form up onto a large cart. They placed the white tablecloth coming from the cart over him, and opened the door to wheel him out together, making sure not to be seen as they kept trying to readjust his arms and legs, stiffened but still taken down off the cart surface by gravity. Liz wept softly on the way there, but made sure that his whines were not loud enough for people to hear. Angela maintained quiet between the two, even going as far an ensuring the cart was not loud when they finally got it to the floor's chute.

When they moved to the sides of the cart in the narrow room with the chute, she watched Liz halt her in order to pull back the sheet from Tristan's face. With a sniffle and a tear of goodbye, he reached down and kissed his bloodied, stale, cold lips. Angela nearly cried, her empathy cutting deep in her heart as she watched her friend kiss the man he loved, hearing him whisper one last sweet nothing.

"Goodbye," Liz sobbed, his hand resting on Tristan's dead chest, feeling the absence of a heartbeat. "I-I love you…"

After letting him have a moment to say goodbye, the two removed the sheet and with all their might, pushed Tristan's corpse into the mouth of the chute and down many feet below. She pushed away the cart, hugging Liz tightly and getting more blood on her in the process.

"Let's get you cleaned up," she suggested. "Come on."

"I…I…will not have peace of mind until…the Countess…suffers!" he grunted furiously and vengefully.

"We are going to see Donovan about that. I am going to help you _and_ them get revenge," she vowed. "You are my friend, Liz."

"I am so happy to have you as a friend, Angela," he smiled tearfully. "Thank you for—"

"Shush," she hushed as they made their way down the hallway, "that's what friends are for, you know."

As they made their way down the heavily-geometric hallway arm in arm, they tried to stay quiet, but when the lights suddenly flickered off, Angela gasped in fright. Liz let go of her arm, but remained by her side as he stepped a couple of steps forward, seeing the light flicker back on to reveal what looked to be a disgusting creature small in size and on all fours crawling toward the two.

"Oh no!" he shouted, half-turning away from the small beast.

Angela let out a sharp scream, seeing it charge toward her, speeding unusually fast for its size, and latch onto her leg. In what sounded like an infant's whine, she felt what seemed to be claws or jagged teeth biting into her pant leg, making her fall on her back and scream before realizing she needed to do something to stop it.

"HELP! LIZ!" she screeched.

When the transvestite tried to reach for the nasty, small creature, he felt a claw swipe across his face, incising a gash that only went skin deep. Angela saw him fall back against the wall trying to cover the wound and stop it from bleeding, and with her leg still in pain, she realized that the bottoms of her shoes, skinny kitten heels, were her last and only line of defense. The creature latched on and whined against her right leg, but when she tried to kick it off, he still gripped onto her, digging its claws and teeth into her like she was a prize cut from a butcher shop.

"AHHHH!" she screamed in agony.

Now, she had to think fast—taking off her left shoe, she stabbed the heel into the head of the creature, making it holler in excruciating pain as he finally let her leg go. The creature was clearly bleeding profusely, but Angela knew it needed to die.

 _JAB!_

A stab to its neck, making it bleed more.

 _SLICE!_

The small kitten heel embedded itself in his left lung, making him struggle to breath.

 _KNOCK!_

The final hit to his head finished him off, but that was when Angela's eyes widened in shock, staring at its small form with horror. It was only then she realized that it was a severely-deformed, monstrous infant with an extremely disfigured face. In fact, it didn't even look like a baby—it looked like a fetus with a terrible cleft palate, small black beady eyes with white eyelashes, and sharp teeth, now covered in blood, lining the cleft in his palate. Tears filled her eyes, and she looked to Liz, noticing the huge gash in his left cheekbone and even more blood smeared on his hand.

"Oh my god…" she heard him mutter.

"A-Are you okay?" she asked, clearly in distress with tears in her eyes as she crawled weakly over to Liz, who crouched down to see her leg. Angela pulled her pant leg back and saw deep claw gashes accompanied with teeth punctures in her skin. The skin was livid, almost a blue color mixed with yellow, and there was blood emanating from each injury.

"I'm b-better off than you," Liz said fearfully.

"I-I'll be fine…I-I just need to go to t-the hospital," Angela said weakly.

"No, y-you don't understand. Y-You just killed…t-the son of…" Liz was cut off, biting his lower lip.

" _What_?" Angela asked with shock.

"That was Bartholomew," Liz answered. "T-The son of the Countess. Y-You killed him…"

Angela's heart nearly stopped as she froze at this notion—that was it, it seemed. She sealed her fate, putting the final nail in the coffin with her killing of Elizabeth's extremely ugly, deformed baby son. Putting her shoe on, she struggled to stand up but had a lot of trouble due to the injuries the baby beast left in her lower leg. The minute she heard footsteps coming down the hallway, the fear was real.

"Oh shit," Angela cried to herself. "I'm _dead_."

"B-B-Brace yourself," Liz said frightfully. "T-The Countess would punish you _dearly_ if she knew it was—"

Angela took another look, and down the hallway, she could vividly see Donovan, Iris and Ramona approaching them. The man's eyes widened, seeing the blood saturated into the strangely patterned, geometric floor and the injuries apparent on Angela's leg. Ramona, still dressed in her patch-fur, colorful jacket and strapless jumpsuit, looked even more in shock but was seemingly angry—but what for?

"Aw, you took my job away from me," she sneered slowly, holding the knife firmly in a grip to her side.

"I-It's was accident…h-he attacked me, and—"

"Little bastard attacked me, too. He was the one in Room 33," Ramona pointed out. "See this gash in my face?" Ramona pointed to her right cheek with the blade, and Angela immediately noticed dried blood clinging to her flawless brown skin. "I see little Liz over there has it, too."

"I t-tried to pull him away from Angela," Liz confessed. "I…I…"

"It's fine," Donovan scoffed, looking at the beautiful woman of color, "you were going to kill him anyways."

"Hmph," he grunted.

"Angela," Iris cut in, looking at her with her dead-looking, serious eyes. "Y-You can't stay here. W-We need to go to the nearest room."

"Mine is down the hall," Liz said.

"Take us there."

The five scurried down the hall, but before long, Alex emerged and began to walk down the hallway. The first thing she noticed on the floor was the pool of blood that saturated the carpet, and next to it was Bartholomew's dead body. She gasped, biting her lower lip sadly as she collected the lifeless, deformed infant into her arms and wrapped in in the black blanket she had on hand with her. Without any words or tears, she took it back to Room 33, where he was permanent resident, and laid him to rest in the bassinet.

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **As Angela becomes more and more immersed into the happenings at the hotel, we can only begin to wonder where things will end up! More to come!**


	15. Chapter 14

_**~ chapter fourteen ~**_

"Stay still."

Angela had pulled up her pant leg in order for the claw gashes and teeth punctures to be cleaned and dressed with proper implements, and Iris was the one to do it. She had to fight the hunger for her addiction to blood as she cleaned the injuries and put an antibiotic on each, wrapping her leg in gauzy bandage. The treatment was indeed excruciating, but having to scurry down the hallway with the other four into Liz's hotel room made it feel much worse.

"OW!" she winced.

"It's okay," Iris said, finishing the bandage wrapping. "You're all set."

Meanwhile, Liz, Donovan and Ramona struggled to clean the bloody mess left by Tristan's corpse on the floor, patting down the carpet first with paper towels before scrubbing it heavily with bleach. However, this only made it worse because there was a patch of carpet made lighter than the surrounding area as a result.

"Damn, this boy sure left a stain," Ramona said.

"The one you're after killed Tristan," Angela added.

"Oh, we know. It's no surprise to us. We know what she is capable of," the woman of color said trivially. "And we know what _you_ are capable of, too."

"What do you mean?"

"You killed Bartholomew," Iris said, sitting next to Angela on the edge of Liz's bed and seeing her son and their allies washing the floor of blood. She looked back at her and continued, "you might as well just have a place with us. If she knows it was _you_ who killed him, she will want your blood and hunt you down so hard until she gets it."

"You in trouble if she ain't fed in a day or two," Ramona said, dropping a soiled paper towel into the trash bag as she stood up.

"So, she's like a vampire?" the brunette asked, looking to Donovan and then to Iris, "and _you_ are, as well?"

"We are afflicted, sugar," Ramona said, answering her question. "We are people, too. We just carry an ancient virus which allows us to live for eternity, never age, and we must feed on blood to survive."

"Then…how come you don't l-look like you want to eat me like a burger right now?" Angela asked curiously. "U-Unless…you—"

"We know better," Iris said, finishing her train of thought.

"Because now, we are a team," Donovan added emphatically with a hint of feist, looking at Ramona, then Liz, and then his mother and Angela sitting on the edge of the suite bed. "You are one of _us_ now, Angela."

"You did what I didn't _get_ to do," Ramona finished, "which I didn't like but…I do at the same time. That baby was her only pride and joy, not those kids she's kept cooped up in those coffins."

 _I helped Alex destroy them_ , thought Liz as he struggled to refrain from saying anything that would incriminate him.

"But why are you getting revenge?" Angela asked curiously, an eyebrow cocked up as she listened to her speak.

"In the seventies," Ramona explained, catching the brunette's attention as she sat in the chair that accompanied the vanity table, "I was the queen of them all. I had come to Hollywood with barely a high school education and no prospects. It wasn't long before I was a star. My pictures grossed ten to fifteen times what they cost to produce. Somebody was making money, and it just wasn't me. They call what we did B-movies. I wanted more, but many roles wanted white women to play the lead. One night, a casting director meets with me in the bar of this hotel, and in the distance, I see Elizabeth saying how much it was an honor to meet me."

Angela nodded, still listening to the afflicted woman as she spoke.

"All she'd done was _look_ at that producer, and he'd turn tail and run, but when she was looking at me, I didn't feel like running." The woman of color continued to tell her background with Elizabeth.

"Did she scare you at all?" Angela questioned, biting her lower lip with intimidation.

"Not at the time, no," the black woman said as she shook her head nostalgically. "She was this rarified, timeless creature who knew everything about art, literature, and fashion. This was the world I wanted to live in, and she promised I could, and forever. So she turned me. It was glorious. She taught me I could be a lady _and_ a badass." She sighed, gulping with a dry throat as she sensed her hunger for blood start to come up. "There was nothing I couldn't be except hers forever."

"I…can only imagine," Angela said under her breath, looking at Ramona after glancing down at her folded-up pant leg exposing her leg wrapped in gauze. "But…w-when did it—"

"Sugar," she interrupted, continuing her explanation. "I'm _way_ ahead of you. In the nineties, Prophet Moses was in the vanguard of those early, heady days, back when Tupac and Biggie were making some noise, but he hadn't broken through yet, of course, which is why the record company put him up at the Cortez and not the Four Seasons." Ramona seemed saddened as she continued to speak, telling her story; "Mo was a poet, and he was, without exception, the _great love_ of my life."

Liz, thinking of Tristan, felt a tear come to his eye, remembering and perfectly picturing the murder he had witnessed, perpetrated by the Countess. He reached up and wiped the teardrop away from his tear duct, but Angela couldn't help but notice this from her place sitting on the bed.

"But I was wrong," Ramona continued.

"I feel your pain," Liz sympathized, sighing mournfully.

"It's sad," the woman of color agreed. "He could have had a future." A tear came to her eye, and before long, her voice was cracking; Angela could hear the sobs beginning to ensue. "W-What she couldn't have, w-was one of her creations creating something else. I-In her eyes…" Now she was really crying, trying to wipe her tears away, "there can only be _one_ queen. She took away from me…the _only thing_ that I _ever_ really cared about. And since then…" She sniffled and looked at everyone in the room, "I plan to do the same thing to her…to those…" Her voice became angry and vengeful, tears still undulating her eyes, " _babies_ she made! I…I _knew_ I needed people from the inside…and I have found them."

"We've already got a headstart," Donovan said, looking at the brunette with his icy eyes. "You killed the beast."

"I…I didn't know that was a baby," Angela said, her voice ridden with guilt and her feline-like blue eyes filled with the same emotion. "H-Had I known—"

"Don't cry innocent," Iris interrupted, keeping a firm but calm tone. "You killed those two hipsters, the ones I fed off."

"I never killed _anyone_ before in my entire life," Angela countered aggressively. "I didn't think I ever COULD do something like that!"

"Angela, I don't think you understand," Donovan said, walking over to her and kneeling at her feet, trying to make eye contact as he held both of her hands in his, feeling the mortal warmth and vitality in her skin. "This place makes you lose your compass, your sense of humanity. Okay?"

"But I'm _not_ a bad person!" she whined neurotically. "I don't _want_ to be!"

"I didn't want to kill, either, but being what I am, I have had to," Donovan argued. "Don't you see? If you sit around and not fight what is against you, you won't survive. Yeah, Bartholomew attacked you, and those hipsters drove you insane, but because you killed the Countess' _only_ pride and joy, she will want your blood if she finds out it is _you_ who did it! Do you understand?!"

 _I have no choice_ , Angela thought.

It was true, she didn't. There was no escaping this inevitable alliance with those who wished for the downfall of the Countess for their own reasons. Ramona for the Countess killing her one true love, just like Liz wanted her to pay for the murder of Tristan; Donovan for the Countess' betrayal in being with Tristan, and Iris' support for her son and the fact that she was just fed up with her. Now, it came down to Angela, who was torn between an internal ethical battle of right and wrong. Her slaughter of the perpetually-infant son of Elizabeth is what nailed the final blow into the coffin that held her fate. It would be that she join them and fight, or lose her life to the Countess' bloodthirsty revenge sitting around and playing innocent.

"I…I understand," she muttered with a sincere nod and an empty look in her eyes.

"Good," he whispered, patting the side of her arm as he stood up and looked at everyone in the room. The blood stain in the carpet was now cleaned, but the bleach had discolored the rug in a peculiar way as Ramona, Liz, and Donovan stood on it. Iris and Angela soon stood up to join them, and there was a moment between each member of the alliance where they made eye contact to acknowledge their bond and duty.

"It is settled," Ramona said. "That _bitch_ will die!"

* * *

Alex was worried—Elizabeth had only told her about her infant son briefly. Now, he was dead; what was she going to tell the one she had made her loyal allegiance to?

She sat in the ebony-wood rocking chair next to the bassinet holding the deformed infant's body, wrapped neatly in the black baby blanket Alex had on hand when she found the small corpse. A strange chill, much colder than her seventy-five degree body temperature, crawled up her spine, and it only got worse as she heard the door creak open behind her and close. The former pediatrician looked back to see the silhouette of the Countess, dressed in an empire-waist gown with a sparkling bodice and her platinum hair pinned back, approaching her.

"How is my baby?" she questioned.

Alex gulped, looking up at her silently and glancing at the wrapped dead body quickly.

"Well…?"

"I…I found him…" her loyal nanny said.

" _Did_ you?" Elizabeth asked, her voice resonating in the darkness like it was one with it.

"H-He appears to be…" the woman with a blonde Gibson-girl said in a shaky, uncertain voice, "mortally wounded."

It didn't take any light at all to know that Elizabeth's light brown, bewitching eyes widened, her brows furrowing with shock and grief as she took this news deeply to heart. The Countess could hear Alex shedding tears, sniffling and starting to sob with remorse.

"I…I am _so_ sorry, Elizabeth," she wept. "I found him…h-he is gone…I-I _tried_ to help revive him…b-but I couldn't...p-please…I am so sorry for your loss."

Without any words at all, Elizabeth made her way to the bassinet, and with the light glow of moonlight beaming through the curtains, she reached down and held the corpse of the severely deformed, monstrous infant wrapped in black. Holding it close and as if he were alive, she began to shed tears of heartbreak and grief, mourning over her great loss. Alex cried along with her, but mostly feared for her own safety if she were to stake the blame for his death on her. Even worse, she feared the fate of Holden, her dear son, would be at stake.

"Apologies won't bring my baby back," the Countess wept softly, her salty, warm tears being absorbed into the fleece of the black fabric enveloping her dead son.

"P-Please…" Alex cried softly, "d-don't hurt me…please…no…"

The Countess, still holding the body of her slaughtered baby, looked at the nanny who had sworn loyalty to her, her light brown eyes glowing a peculiar gold in the dark.

"What makes you think I would hurt you?" she questioned, her tears ineffective in cracking her voice to mortal sobs.

Alex nearly sighed in relief, staring back at her and seeing her smooth, neat platinum hair in the dim moonlight beaming through the sheer curtains behind the bassinet. The Countess leaned down, putting baby Bartholomew back into his bassinet to rest in his deathly slumber, looking to her faithful nanny.

"I…I'll do _anything_ …I…I will find the person who did this," Alex vowed, growing more tearful as she held praying hands to her face, "but _please_! Don't hurt me _or_ my son! Please!"

"Oh, I won't hurt you or Holden. You misunderstand," Elizabeth said sadly, staring at her nanny.

"Y-You _won't_?" Alex asked, seeking reassurance so she could be relieved of the stresses that haunted her for the dark years in which Holden was missing.

"No. While I normally would _never_ let someone redeem their worth to me," the Countess explained, "I can see that you tried to save my son."

"Y-You saved _mine_ , Elizabeth. Why wouldn't I have done the same for you?" Alex questioned.

"I am convinced that you are deserving of redemption, Alex. I do not blame you for my son's… _murder_ ," she said, her voice finally cracking to a brief sob. "This was in cold blood. I know for certain you would be a _fool_ to commit such a heinous act, especially after what you have been through."

"Yes, y-yes, I would be," Alex said frantically. "Tell me what I have to do to, Elizabeth. I-I will do anything."

"I want you to find the one who did this to my son," the Countess instructed.

"Yes, _yes_ , Elizabeth…" Alex said obediently and without question. "I will find them…I will…"

" _But_ …" she interrupted softly, "don't kill them. Bring them to _me_. I will take care of them." The Countess moved closer, raising the fatally-gleaming talon on her strange, silvery gauntlet and lightly tracing it along Alex's soft jawline, "I want them soon enough, or I will take _certain matters_ …" and the gauntlet went to the line in the hollow of her throat, "in _my_ _own hands_ …"

"No!" Alex exclaimed. "I…I _will_ find them! I _promise_ you, Elizabeth!"

She took away the talon from where it has been lightly tracing on her throat—"good."

But then looked to the bassinet and sighed, saying: "I want a proper funeral for my baby. I hope they can preserve him forever and ever."

* * *

Meanwhile, in Room 64, John had just fallen into a deeper state of sleep after spending two and a half hours trying to get there. Beneath the white, eerily-clean sheets, he was wearing nothing but his underpants. His eyes seemed to be glued shut by his exhaustion, which was in turn caused by the amazing amount of stress he had endured. He was fired from his job as a detective, Pamela was dead, and his family was gone, not to mention the fact that he had not seen Angela in quite a while. Thinking of her dark beauty, pale skin and feline-shaped blue eyes was enough to make him dream and forget about his cares, at least for a while.

Or, at least until the sound of record player feedback woke him up.

He was sluggish but wiped his eyes anyways, hearing the feedback turn to a melodic acoustic guitar in the key of E minor. Once his line of view faded to clarity, he drew in his furrowed brow to see Pamela at the record player stand, adjusting the arm while drawing a piece of her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. She was dressed rather strangely, but it did not surprise John one bit—her outfit consisted of a red-orange skirt that went to the ankles and a peach peasant blouse with billowed sleeves. Over the blouse was a fitted corset-like vest that criss-cross laced in the front, but there was something quite unusual about the ensemble—John noticed that she was not wearing the usual gaudy jewelry with her fingers stacked with rings, her wrists with bangles, or even her trademark suede dreamcatcher pendant.

When she noticed he was awake, she looked and smiled at him.

"Hi, John!" she said rather cheerfully.

"Uh…" the former detective pulled back the sheet, still groggy and knowing he was imagining things. _Pamela is dead_ , he thought to himself. " _Pamela_?"

"I thought you'd recognize me," she said. "But then again, this outfit, though. Karen wore the same thing back in 1971 when she sang _Close to You_ in one of their first concerts _ever_."

"K- _Karen_? Who the…"

"Are you _kidding_ me? _Please_ tell me we don't have to go over this _again_ ," Pamela snided sarcastically. "It's Karen Carpenter of the _Carpenters_ , you dummy."

"What are you doing here?"

"Hm, well before you got _fired_ ," the ghost of the police psychic said as the music progressed to familiar lyrics, "we were working on a case together…" She paused, and the lyrics ensued; "oh _wait_! You told _me_ to leave and called _me_ crazy…when in reality, _you_ are the one having psychotic breaks!"

"S-Stop!" John commanded. "Just…p-please…"

"Well, for all I know, I'm just in your head," said the police psychic, nearing him with the bright-colored skirt swaying around her legs. "Let's hope that murder coming up at the church a few streets over isn't a figment of your imagination, either."

Pamela giggled as if she cracked a casual joke, but John did not find her one bit funny— _a murder in a church_ , he thought.

" _What?!_ Are you…" He paused and pointed for the door. "Get out!"

Then, before long, he saw two beautiful blonde women come into the room in nothing but the bare minimum, which made Pamela wince but John nearly cower in fear, shaking his head as their distinctive accents got to him.

"We have a purpose," one of them said—it was Vendela.

"You look better than a Fast and Furious ride," the other said; Agnetha had said this, which nearly creeped him out.

"W-Who are _you_?" he asked with fear as they neared him to try and seduce him, but his head turned to another direction at the sound of the voice of an older woman.

"Oh, look at the mess you've made! This will need three ammonia washes!" it said—it was Miss Evers, dressed in her old-time maid uniform as she gathered the sheets, apparently covered in blood, from the bed in the suite.

"What are you doing? STOP!" he shouted.

Then he turned around again, seeing James March standing there with his top hat and cane with a pipe sticking from his mouth.

"Welcome to your official immersion in the Hotel Cortez," he snided sinisterly with a grin so evil that the devil himself would praise it. "It was quite rude of you to leave the party with that hussy, but…she was indeed beautiful, though…"

"STOP IT!" John screamed, feeling like he was about to explode. "I MEAN IT! GET OUT!"

"Oh stop bitching!" a familiar voice cracked; John looked to see it was Sally, wearing nothing but a black negligee with black garters to hold up her stockings. As usual, she was smoking a cigarette, and her kinky, bleach-blonde hair was beyond help in its bed-head state.

"WHAT DO YOU ALL WANT?!" he asked loudly. "STOP!"

The room seemed to be in total chaos as more faces appeared, frightening John and giving him such a panic attack that he felt like he was going to explode; it was like an amalgam of voices and figures being perceived all in one place, ripping his mind apart and pulling it in every direction like an elastic on a peg board.

Miss Evers was busy scolding the two Swedes, blaming them for the mysterious blood stain on the bed—"you harlots! You have _no_ respect for fresh, clean linens I work _so hard_ to clean for Mr. March!"

A man with shaggy dark hair and light brown eyes named Justin, who was the hipster Angela murdered along with his girlfriend, came in ranting and raving with his clothes covered in blood where puncture rips were—"how hard is it to get some goddamn kale around here?!"

The next place he looked, Pamela was vomiting what appeared to be brown water, kneeling on the floor in front of the bed, and out of the corner of his eye, a dark-skinned woman covered in sanguine fluid and deep stab wounds flaying her exquisite white silk pajamas.

"Is this hell?" she asked; it was Claudia Bankson, the editor from _Vogue_ —she appeared to have been stabbed to death.

That did it—John exploded, going to the nearest wall and punching it repeatedly until his knuckles became bloody, and he banged the front of his forehead against it three time as he screamed relentlessly in distress. The ghosts of Pamela, Justin, Vendela, Agnetha, Mr. March, Miss Evers, Claudia Bankson, and Sally all seemed to be coming closer near him, laughing and speaking simultaneously—Sally's teeth even appeared to fall out of her mouth.

"STOP! STOP! NO! YOU'RE NOT REAL! STOP IT! STTOOOOPPPPP!"

After a few moments, he closed his eyes and let out a ground-shaking scream, bloody hands covering his ears until he no longer heard the hallucinations. When his eyes opened, he found himself crouched to the old brown carpet, looking around to see that no one was in the hotel room but him. His heart was racing a million miles an hour, but that didn't stop him from putting on the clothing laying around from the day before, reaching for his suitcase, and packing up all of his belongings.

He wanted out, and he did. He didn't even sign the reservation book—and there was nobody even at the receptionist's desk, not even Angela.


	16. Chapter 15

**~ chapter fifteen ~**

Sitting in the plain, stark beige waiting room of the mental ward at the West Long Angeles Health Center was John Lowe, former detective and new patient. It was beyond the shadow of a doubt that after experiencing the intense breakdown in his final moments within the walls of the enigmatic hotel, he needed to seek professional help for his psychological disturbances. Between the case of the Ten Commandments Killer, the deaths he had seen including that of Pamela, and the dissolution of his family, he felt it was best. Ironically, Alex had been there with him. She had helped him understand the more-complex-than-usual medical jargon on the forms he had willingly signed, as well as try to persuade him not to stay in such a place—the atmosphere gave her the vibe that it was not the best place to be staying, not even for the most hardened criminal deemed to be a psychopath.

She also had been wearing her usual clothing before her transformation into an afflicted; her golden hair was down and topped with a navy blue beret, and her pea coat matched perfectly in texture and shade, the bronze buttons leading down to a black pencil skirt, gray tights and black boots. John noticed she was awfully pale, but still looked older than her actual age.

"Are you sure you want to stay here?" his estranged wife questioned, seeing her rugged husband next to her in the waiting room. "There are more comfortable places, John. I could get you into Resnick."

"No," John protested calmly, avoiding eye contact purposely and subconsciously. "This will do just fine, Alex."

Before long, a psychiatric nurse practitioner came into the waiting room, looking down at her clipboard and pulling a pencil from behind her ear to see who was next on the list.

"John Lowe?" she called out, catching his attention; he looked at her with a blank expression. "The doctor will be seeing you now."

"Thank you," he said blankly.

As he stood up to follow the nurse practitioner, he took a few steps to walk through the doorway to a hallway full of rooms on both sides; when he finally glanced back, he saw that Alex was gone from sight. Then again, she was not the important one here—it was he, himself, and him, and he was determined to get over this insanity.

When he was brought to a room, a psychiatrist came in within ten minutes of him waiting, and they introduced one another. The doctor began an initial examination, aking questions relevant to his memory and perception of time and location.

"Do you know who you are?" he questioned as he peered into his eyes with a specialized light, lowering his bottom lid down as telling him to move his eye.

"J-John Lowe…detective," he muttered.

"Where are you? Do you know?"

"C-California."

"Which hospital?"

John did not answer, looking downward and breathing steadily as the doctor answered for him.

"Mr. Lowe, you're at the West Los Angeles Health Center," the psychiatrist stated. "I'd like to ask you some questions to determine your state of mind."

"Okay."

"Could you start by counting backwards from 100 by five?"

"Uh…" He had to think for a moment, but before long, he had it for only so long, "one hundred…uh, 95…80…85…wait a minute… _no_!"

"Start over," the doctor instructed.

"Okay…one hundred…95…90…85…80…75…"

Then there were the generic questions from a questionnaire to be taken by patients to determine the presence of depression. John looked downward even as the psychiatrist asked him a variety of different questions from the clipboard.

"Are you discouraged about your future?"

"Are you seeing or hearing things that are not really present?"

"Are you able to make judgments based on objective or subjective criteria?"

"Do you feel suicidal or have frequent thoughts of death?"

Naturally, John's responses to several of these questions raised the psychiatrist's eyebrows. After preliminary testing was done, the two sat down in his private office down the hall from the exam room, and the psychiatrist looked at him with a pen and paper, ready to write down whatever answers he had to his questions.

"In your own words, can you tell me why you're here?" he asked.

John took a moment, taking a breath before answering: "I, um, feel like I'm going insane. Nothing seems real anymore." He paused and looked at the psychiatrist, making eye contact for the first time since coming there.

"Can you be specific?"

"Eh…some setbacks at work, I lost my job…uh…separation from my wife…m-my partner is dead…I need professional help, doctor…" John explained.

"Well, John," the doctor said, finishing writing verbatim what he said, "I think it's very important that you recognized that you have a problem and took positive action. Not many people are willing to face their problems like you do. Was there anything recent that happened to cause this latest episode?"

"It all started about a month ago, maybe four weeks ago," the former detective said, slouching back in his chair. "I've been working on a very frustrating case. I was assigned a partner, and she was a police psychic. Anyways…t-there's a killer out there using the Ten Commandments as justification. I was recently put on administrative leave because the police chief also thinks I'm going insane. He even said it himself. I…I've been staying in this hotel the whole time, and I checked out four days ago because I had…this awful breakdown in my suite…I just left. I-It was very scary. I thought I was going to lose it. I did, though, doctor—"

* * *

" _Hey, dickhead, you're on administrative leave," Detective Hahn said assertively, just after discovering John had snuck into the department to analyze evidence. "If the chief or captain sees you here, you won't even get your old job back."_

 _John's curiosity had gotten to him, and the best of him at that. "Who's the suspect?"_

' _I'm not covering for you anymore. You blew that, John," his fellow detective and former coworker said, fastening the buckles on his briefcase as he looked down._

" _I want to talk to him," the former detective said, pushing up his black hair laced with natural oils. "Where is he?"_

" _Why don't you go get some fresh air, John?" Detective Hahn said._

" _TELL ME WHO IT IS!" he demanded in a rage._

 _John lunged out and nearly attacked Detective Hahn, but not before he could press the help button on his walkie-talkie for backup. A group of three security guards rushed into the office to see what the commotion was all about, and when they saw John pinning his former colleague to the wall, they quickly pulled him away and with excessive force. John ended up on the floor, rubbing his backside where he fell, looking up at the elaborate posts he made on the wall of everything regarding the case of the Ten Commandments Killer._

* * *

"I…I attacked the one of the only friends I had," he explained as the memory faded from his mind. "And the one person who truly helped me is now dead. I…I kept seeing her…I knew she was dead but I kept seeing her there. Then…I saw all of these other dead in the building…and I had a breakdown."

"And that's when you finally realized you needed help?" the psychiatrist asked, jotting down John's unusual testimony.

"I knew it was time I checked into a hospital, for sure," John replied.

"We'll get a handle on this, John." The doctor took off his glasses and clicked his pen closed. "This is a good first step."

John's icy eyes looked at the man, and he spoke in an eerily calm voice—"I feel I'm exactly where I need to be."

There was a slight grin in his straight face, the corners of his mouth turning upwards and his brow furrowing inward, his intense blue eyes staring off into the space behind the doctor as he nodded with this strange, subtle expression.

* * *

It took about three days for John to get used to his new surroundings in the mental institution. Between three meals a day and regular psychiatric sessions, it seemed to make more and more sense again. He had told the psychiatrist everything he saw, from the victims at the crime scenes of the killer to even the Devil's Night soiree. However, there was still the pressing issue of the Ten Commandments Killer—who was it? Who was in custody that Detective Hahn had stated? Why did they commit such heinous murders?

The third night, he was unable to sleep, so he wandered the halls, feigning the act of taking a simple walk until he heard a sarcastic young man's voice laughing with the sound of a young female engaging in conversation with him. He stopped, and there they were—a security guard and the same nurse practitioner who led him to being admitted. She had a lollipop in her mouth, and in a very seductive manner as well; not appropriate for the subject matter in their conversation.

"Did you hear the one about the priest?" the security guard asked the nurse. "The guy apparently stuffed him with coins until he exploded. His guts were everywhere."

 _Oh my god_ , John thought, _Pamela was right! Again!_

"You're freaking me out," the nurse said in facetious disgust as she sucked on her lollipop.

"That monster is here, right behind that door in Room 153," the young man said to his coworker. "What kind of psycho thinks of that shit? Much less actually _do_ it, let alone _think_ it!"

"And they only have one guard at the door?" the nurse asked seductively—John saw her put her hand on his forearm, and he just giggled casually.

"I'm plenty enough for anything," he said, shrugging off any subtle warning.

"Okay, well, you better pay attention to that door," she joked, walking away from the table and to the door down the hall, "make sure nothing bad comes out."

John knew he was onto something during his coincidental stroll through the halls of the ward. The security guard flipped on some music, blaring it loudly with Nirvana's _Lithium_ as he kicked back in his seat with his feet on the desk. Within a few minutes, he was obliviously singing along to the bridge with Kurt Cobain's husky, grungy voice, albeit very terribly on his part:

" _I like it, I'm not gonna crack_

 _I miss you, I'm not gonna crack_

 _I love you, I'm not gonna crack_

 _I killed you, I'm not gonna crack…"_

So John took the opportunity to distract him by intentionally going to the tray where the man's late dinner was, pretending to trip as the contents of the tray came down with him. The security guard gasped and got up, coming to his aid to try and help him up.

"Are you okay, sir?" he asked.

 _Ba-BAM!_

John knocked the security guard out with the tray, hitting it off the side of his head and watching as he became unconscious. Once he knew for sure he was, he leaned down and reached for his ID card, taking it off his person and rushing to the ID-locked door. He swiped the card in a likewise manner and let the door open for him. He hurried into the obscure hallway with the door closing behind him, making his way to the room he heard the guard talking about.

He went to the door and heard quiet sobbing, but it did not sound like that of a full grown man, as John had previously thought and profiled during his time with the LAPD. Using a pin and paper clip, he picked the lock and opened the door, gingerly stepping in to see the light on, revealing no one in the room but a young girl who looked to be about eleven years old with the palest features he had ever seen. From her platinum blonde, messy braids to the alabaster tone of her flawless skin, dressed in black to make it even more pronounced, he proceeded with caution, speaking to her as kindly as he could. He didn't fail to notice that a tray with an apple, a small carton of milk, and a turkey and cheese sandwich remained untouched on the desk near the hospital bed in the room.

"W-Who are you?" he asked softly.

"I'm Wren," she answered.

"You didn't eat your dinner," he said, referring to the untouched tray of food the nurses had brought her.

"I'm not hungry for that," the little girl said, wiping her eyes and making eye contact with the man with raven black hair and striking male features.

"They can get you something else," John suggested. "All you have to do is ask."

"I don't want to feed anymore," she said sadly, looking down at her Mary Jane-styled shoes.

"Why did they put you in here, Wren?" he asked, taking a seat in the desk chair across from the bed the young girl was sitting on.

"B-Because I wouldn't talk to them," she replied.

"The police officer, you mean?"

"Detective Hahn's his name," Wren corrected.

"T-They found you in that church, didn't they?" John questioned, leaning forward to get a better look at the pale, young towhead. "You saw what happened? With that priest?"

What she said next chilled his bones to a crisp with fear—"I helped."

His eyes widened, and he shook his head slightly with disbelief. How could a young girl be forced into doing something so heinous with the killer he's been trying to chase down?

"Oh my god," he muttered, "y-you must have been _terrified_." He paused, but Wren listened closely and sniffled. "The man you saw has done a _lot_ of bad things, but I know for a fact that you won't have to be afraid of him anymore."

"Do you believe that?" she asked.

"Of course I do."

Again, John felt uneasy and uncomfortably disturbed by her next bit of personal testimony: "But nobody forced me to do anything."

He just stared at her, and she continued with even more disturbing details.

"That security guard…h-he tried to interrupt…I cut him and fed from him…" she detailed.

John was in shock—"You _killed_ the security guard?"

"He was going to catch him," Wren said guiltlessly.

"Wren, you need to help me, so I would really appreciate if I had your full cooperation, okay?" John finally said, getting to the point and somewhat sharing his goal of catching the mysterious serial killer. "I want to know we can trust each other, Wren. I won't lie to you, but can you promise the same—"

"I was there the other times," Wren interrupted, "like the time when he nailed their tongues to the table, and when he hung the brothers from the beds. He cut open their stomachs. It stunk." She paused, grimacing at the memory. " _Now_ do you believe me?"

"You _were_ there," John realized, "but whatever he made you do, whatever you think you did, _he_ 's responsible. It's not your fault."

She was quick to disagree—"it _is_ my fault. Everything that happened."

John almost had tears in his eyes, as just the thought of the young girl participating in such horrible acts made him extremely upset.

" _Please_ don't say that!" He sniffled and looked into her dead-looking, lifeless gray eyes. "You sound exactly like my daughter Scarlett. She's around your age. I think deep down she blames herself for everything that's wrong with me, and everything that's happened to our family, b-but it's _me_ , not her. Just like it's _him_ , not you."

"I like you," she answered finally after a moment of trepidation and silence; she crossed her legs Indian style and looked right at him. "You're nothing like my father."

"Want to share more with me about that, Wren?" John questioned with genuine concern.

"When I was young, my dad told me he wanted to see me grown up," she explained grimly, preparing herself for the dark details ahead. "He told me I was going to be his, but the way he said it frightened me. I was not able to sleep at night because I knew with each passing day, I was a day closer." She paused and wiped a tear that came down her face. "O-One day, he left me in a car while he went drinking at the Cortez. It was a hot day. I couldn't breathe, but I didn't open the window, and I didn't say a word. I…I wanted to die…" She paused, looking down at the skirt of her black dress. "But I found another way. I became one of Elizabeth's children. Now, looking back, I think maybe growing up wouldn't have been so bad because it can't be worse than this."

He shook his head, trying to understand what she was saying: "Wren, I don't understand. Are you telling me it's your father? _He_ 's the killer?"

"No," she said.

"Then…?"

"He died a long time ago," she said. Then her voice grew more frantic, looking at John with such pain and grief in her lifeless, tearful; "I'm just I'm so sick of this whole thing. I don't want it anymore! I don't want to drink blood! I want to be a normal kid again and grow up!"

" _Shh, shh_ ," John lulled, hearing her start to cry and sob into her hand. "Then let it go. C-Can you tell me the name of this man?"

"I can't!" she whined. "Don't make me!"

"Why are you protecting someone who doesn't deserve _any_ thing from you?" he asked firmly.

"You wouldn't believe me," Wren accused.

"He's going to keep killing people unless you help me stop him!" he exclaimed.

"Get me out of here," she told him, "and I'll show you where he lives!"

"We're not playing a game here, Wren," he told her, staring straight at her. "Maybe it's time he got caught."

The little girl was finally convinced, and knowing full well she would give anything for a normal childhood and life again. John seemed to hold the answer to this dilemma, especially since she felt guilty about participating in the murders as she claimed. She looked down before standing on her own two feet, nodding at the former detective.

* * *

The two spent the next few nights planning an escape, the late hours passed contemplating different options with which to move forward in his quest to find the killer. She claimed that the majority of the clues led back to the Hotel Cortez. Because of what had happened and the things he had seen, John was hesitant to even consider going back there. However, the intrinsic drive to catch the mysterious Ten Commandments Killer was, without a doubt, strongly influencing him to just do it.

So they finally settled on an escape plan, and a lot of it was based on Wren's willingness to leave and her small state of being to be fast about it, meeting John in the lightly-guarded back way of the hospital and crawling through a small grate covering an air vent that led to the outside world. He let Wren pass through first, and he crawl right behind her until they hit a patch of tall grass, crawling through that and going slightly uphill to the sidewalk nearest the hospital parking lot. John looked down at the albino-like towhead, who seemed scared out of her wits when he spoke.

"Alright," he muttered, out of breath from the hasty run. "I got you out. Now, Wren, take me to him."

She seemed complacent in tone: "Then we need to go home."

"Where?"

"The Cortez," she answered.

"Ooh…" John groaned, feeling the clues coming so fast he could almost taste them on his tongue, "when I find him, I'm going bury him in a hole _so_ deep, he'll _never_ see the light of day ever again."

Wren's eyebrows furrowed—I barely see the light of day, she thought to herself.

"It's time to make him stop," he added.

"Will you kill him?" she questioned.

"Only if I have to," John answered with utmost honesty.

But then, Wren's tone of voice and what she was saying really chilled his bones stiff with fear and apprehension. The blank look in her eyes, which seemed to stare off into space vaguely, made him feel even more disturbed: "I really like you, but I hate to see it end. Goodbye, John."

John's jaw dropped, seeing the young towhead's betrayal of their agreement to find the perpetrator of the Ten Commandments murders as she scurried into the street, running away from him. He screamed for her to return, especially since he heard the beeping of a Mack truck in the darkness of the night; this made him feel like he was about to go over the edge.

"WREN! NO! COME BACK!"

 _Beeeeppp! Beep-beeeepppp….._

 _SPLAT!_

The tires of the truck seemed to almost screech as John witnessed Wren die right before him, perishing the moment the front of the Mack truck hit her seemingly rapid, running body. He gasped, nearly in tears as he saw the disheveled remains of the young towhead scattered along the dark asphalt road. The street lights illuminated the entrails that had escaped from a thick wound in her abdomen, and her legs and arms appeared to be broken. There even was a trail of blood emanating from her mouth and clinging to her graying pale flesh.

"NO!" he exclaimed, looking around to see if anyone could help him. "NO! DAMN IT!"

If he were to call the police, they would not help him due to his tarnished reputation with the LAPD. If he were to the call the ambulance, they would not help either because they were escaped mental patients aside from the fact that this girl was physically damaged beyond repair. In essence, he was stuck—there was no getting out of this; yet, he knew he had better sense than to just walk away and leave her remains there. He needed to do something and fast.

* * *

Meanwhile, the Hotel Cortez was undergoing major construction under the direction of its new owner, fashion designer Will Drake. About two hundred laborers began work by renovating the art deco-style into a more modern architectural style. The designer had been strolling around with his young son, Lachlan, planning to break the big news he had in store for him that would change their lives.

"So we're really going to stay here, dad?" the boy questioned.

"Well, you know what Paris does to me," Will replied to his son as they took a stroll past construction equipment and the men working them. "Dior, Lagerfeld. You should see their ateliers. I want mine to be right here. This place inspires me."

"Yeah." Lachlan paused and fixed his longish brown hair. "I made some friends. I think it's nice."

"Well then I have some big news for you, son," Will introduced, crouching down to meet him at eye level.

"What is it? The boy asked, feeling his father's hands go to his shoulders.

"What would you think if I told you that me and Elizabeth are engaged to be married?" Will asked rhetorically.

"Wait, I thought you liked men?" Lachlan questioned with his brows furrowed inward.

Will just chuckled at his son's observation—"oh, son, adults are _way_ more complicated than that."

"Then I approve," Lachlan agreed with a nod. "She's nice."

"That's good, son," he answered. "I'm sure we will enjoy our life here. Once she and I get settled, I will be working on my spring fashion line to be released in March."

"Y-Yes, dad," Lachlan said, pretending to be interested.

"I'm sure Elizabeth will help me think of ideas, but…"

Will looked ahead, seeing a familiar young woman walking down the corridor to take a peek at the renovations going on in the hotel. Recognizing her wavy, dark hair, her smooth pale skin, and feline-like blue eyes, he immediately knew it was Angela, the one who modelled one of his outfits during the gala. The first thing he noticed was how well she was dressed, as she wore a robin-egg blue sleeveless shirt cinched with a chunky belt at the waist with dark-wash jeans and a pair of wedged black sandals. Her hair was neatly brushed, and her makeup was light and soft, a neutral gloss complete with a light brown on her vivid blue eyes. He finally had the courage to call out to her despite the noise of the machinery, and she surprisingly heard him.

"Angela?"

She looked his way and smiled a closed grin, letting him approach her with Lachlan at his side. She looked at the young boy and then at his father, who made eye contact with her.

"H-Have we met?" the young woman asked.

"I'm sure we have, actually," Will said. "I'm Will Drake. Fashion designer. I'm also the new owner of this hotel."

Angela's eyes widened—she remembered him now. It was for his fashion line she modeled at the gala's runway, and she remembered every moment spent backstage and walking on the catwalk as an exhilarating one. Even when Claudia mouthed her a signal to strike a pose, it was still a monumental moment. She had never walked a catwalk before, let alone tried on the designs of a real fashion designer like Will Drake. She cleared her throat and smiled.

"Uh…oh yes!" she chuckled. "Of course."

"Let's get away from all this construction and talk for a minute, okay?"

"Okay."

The three, Lachlan included, began to make their way away from the commotion in the hotel hallway, trying to be careful of any machinery that was in their path. Once they reached the elevator, Will pressed the button for it to come up to the corresponding floor and meet them, and once they stepped in, they continued their talk.

"Let's go for lunch," the man suggested.

"Huh?"

"Well, wouldn't you agree that your performance on the catwalk a couple of weeks ago was something for the ages?" Will asked.

"W-What are you t-trying to tell me?" she stammered nervously.

"He needs inspiration," Lachlan cut in, catching her attention rather quickly.

"Uh _yes_ , Lachlan," Will said, looking at his son before looking at the young woman. "Among many things here. But Angela, what I mean to say is that…I have a business proposition for you."

"What would that be?"

"We will discuss it over lunch," he smiled cordially. "It's all on me. My treat."

"Where are we going?" Angela asked.

"Blaqhaus."

The drive to this ultra-modern, super-chic restaurant was not a long one, but when they got out, they had to walk down the street in order to reach their final destination. Will, Angela and Lachlan were then seated at the table for three. The table was set by a window with a good view of the North Hollywood portion of the city. They were handed menus, and each adult was carded so they could get a glass of moscato. Upon sipping it, Angela nodded with delight at the bitter but saccharine taste.

"This is really good wine."

"It sure is," Will said, looking down at his menu and the pictures of the available dishes to order. "Hm…this Dodger Bleu looks delicious."

"What is it, dad?" Lachlan asked, taking a sip of his milk.

"It's…uh…" Will read verbatim off the menu; "grass-fed beef, bleu cheese, bacon, crispy onion, jalapenos, BBQ sauce, garlic aioli, arugula served on a brioche bun." He looked to Angela, who was eyeing the menu but seemed to have made her decision; "you?"

"Uh…a salad. The one with romaine, bacon, blue cheese, cherry tomato and ranch," she responded.

"Oh, you mean the Chopstix salad? It comes with egg and avocado, too," he suggested.

"No, I don't like eggs or that in my salad," Angela responded, sipping her wine.

"I'm thinking of the mac and cheese dish," Lachlan said. "Keep it simple."

When the waitress came to take their orders, he wrote down everything they said and went back to put it in for them. Will and Angela took sips of their wine and participated in small talk while Lachlan just sat there, good conduct and all, and listened.

"Angela, thanks for agreeing to let me buy you lunch," the designer said.

"Thank you," she answered with a smile, her pearly whites showing.

"So…my business proposition for you, well, let's start small. Have you ever been the model for a designer? Ever?" he asked.

"Not until that time at the gala," Angela said after a brief silence.

"Yes, but I mean more like a model to base his designs off of," Will added. "Not just size and stuff, but colors and textures."

"N-No."

"I'll be honest, seeing you model that creation of mine was a sight to see," he smirked, "but after seeing that, I would love if you could model more for me, and even be the inspiration behind my spring line being released in a few months."

She nearly dropped her glass of wine—was he seriously asking her to do this? Or was it just another false hope like Claudia had given her?

"Uh…Mr. Drake, uh…" she stammered. "I'm speechless."

"Oh, no need to be. Being a model means getting over your shyness," he smirked. "I can tell you are. It's okay. I was, too."

"But you design," Angela contradicted. "You don't model."

"That's true, but social skills are everything when making deals with fashion houses," he said. "I suggest you think about this."

"Well…i-it is a dream of mine," the young woman said nervously.

"Then that should be more of a reason," Will stated. "You are young, beautiful, and _very_ fashion-forward. You would make a very fine model, and you'd be one to get better with age. Think Cindy Crawford."

Angela nodded; _this is unreal_ , she thought, _a designer wants me to model his fashions_.

When they got their food, they all took their first bites and gave feedback. Will was particularly fond of the sandwich he ordered, while Angela loved the salad she was delivered. Lachlan didn't like the jalapenos and spiciness of the unique mac and cheese, so he simply plucked them out as he listened to Angela and Will converse over the ideas they could do if she were to model and inspire his creativity.

"I think you would look amazing in florals, black lace, and leather," he suggested as he took a bite of his sandwich.

"I like pastels a lot," Angela smiled. "In fact, that's my go-to for work everyday."

"I noticed the change in dress," Will said. "You're not a maid anymore?"

"No, I, uh…actually was promoted," she said proudly. "I'm working the front desk now. No more scrubbing dirty toilets for me."

"That's wonderful, but _not_ as wonderful as modelling, I would say," the designer said as he took a sip of his moscato.

"True," Angela said, "but I don't think I could leave the hotel."

Will just looked at her, and she looked back at him before taking a sip of her wine. Too much had already happened during her time working at the Hotel Cortez to just run away from it all; even if she tried, there wouldn't be getting away from it without consequence of some sort, especially since she joined the alliance between Donovan, Ramona and Iris with Liz to oust the Countess and end the reign of terror she was initially ignorant to, and the fact that she killed two people—if she were to leave, she knew for sure she would be ousted herself.

"Why do you think you'll leave the hotel? You don't have to," Will replied, giving her a sigh of relief. "If you are to take this opportunity, you could still work in the hotel. In fact, we would meet once a week or so, and I know this great photographer here in LA who I just got in touch with. His gave up a good promotion when his company was laying off many models. He was going to be given a higher position, but his true passion was photography."

"I see…w-what was his name, by chance?" the young woman asked.

"Jeff," he smiled.

"I knew a photographer named Jeff!" she exclaimed in response. "Is he…"

"Yes, he didn't want to be promoted. He loved photography," Will said, taking out his wallet and flipping it open. "Here is his card."

Angela took out the business card from her own purse and looked at Will's copy, seeing it was an identical match—the same name, the same phone number, the same everything pretty much. Angela smiled, remembering the last photo shoot she was in. She looked at Will with a look of sadness, remembering what the woman in the higher-ups said about her "lackluster" shots and appearance.

"I do know him," she said.

"Well that's great!" Will replied. "It's settled then."

"Wait, not yet. Can you at least give me a chance to think about it?"

Will sighed reluctantly, looking back at her with an eyebrow raised—"if you insist."

When Angela arrived back at the hotel with Will and Lachlan, she immediately went back to work at the front desk to see no one but Iris there, looking at her blankly and with the permanent scowl with which she looked at everyone. Will and Lachlan waved goodbye for a final, umpteenth time as the elevator doors closed, and Iris began her dialogue toward Angela.

"Well, look who finally showed up," she said sarcastically. "I was beginning to miss you."

"Oh yeah," Angela responded, going behind the counter to meet her boss. "Will Drake took me for lunch. He says he has a business proposition for me."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"And that is…?"

"Well…" Angela began, looking at Iris and leaning in to whisper, "he wants me to model his spring fashion line. Apparently he has some ideas that will fit me."

"Oh, slow your roll," Iris protested, waving her pale, wrinkled hands before her. "Don't get caught up in the fantasies and dreams. Do you even _know_ who Will Drake is marrying?"

"Uh…n-no, I don't," the young woman said.

Iris leaned up, grabbing Angela's forearm and feeling the fresh, warm mortal blood pulsing through its center—"Elizabeth."

The young woman's eyes widened—" _what_?"

"You heard my words," she replied. "Going up there is a death sentence."

"Where?"

"The penthouse," Iris answered. "If she knows _you_ were the one who killed her baby, she'll have your blood. She will want it like an addict without his fix. Don't you _see_?!"

"Wait a minute," Angela stopped, "I thought he was gay."

"He is, but the Countess has decided to marry him," Iris said. "I don't know the reasons, but I know in her heart of hearts she has an agenda hidden." She paused, and Angela made eye contact, looking at her attentively. ''Look, unless you can say no to Will without mentioning Elizabeth, then I personally _forbid_ you from going up there."

Angela suddenly had an idea—being grouped with the alliance against the Countess had its perks, but so didn't actually being in the presence of the enigmatic, murderous creature. She began to explain it in detail, catching Iris' attention but in a rather neutral way of response on her part.

"Iris," she said, "I just thought of something."

"What could you possibly have in mind?" Iris asked.

"If the Countess is up there, and we are working against her for shit she has done," Angela explained, "then maybe I can, you know, move things along?"

"How so?"

"Sometimes the best way to attack someone isn't by violence," the young woman began, "but by knowing their secrets."

Iris nodded, looking up at her—"hm, you don't say."

"I'm serious. Gain her trust, then betray her," Angela said.

"No, _no_!" Iris said. "That's a terrible idea! Look what happened to Tristan when he—"

"I don't mean in _that_ way," Angela said, correcting herself quickly before taking a breath. "I'm straight."

"Do you realize how many of the same sex she has successfully seduced?" Iris questioned.

"She won't seduce me. Plus, Will said I would only be up there once a week, and I can still work down here at the front desk if I wanted to," the young woman explained.

"Oh," Iris finally said, realizing the logic behind it. "I see. Thank god it's not an everyday thing. You won't be seeing her much, then."

"So…do you think it's a good idea?"

"It's worth a shot," Iris said with a shrug. "If you ever need anything, you know where to reach me."

 _As I'm fulfilling a part of my dream of becoming a model_ , she thought, _I am also working against the one who is causing enough trouble around here to make everyone uneasy. It's a win-win. Let's just hope this pans out right. I'd hate to be the one on the bad end._


	17. Chapter 16

**_~ chapter sixteen ~_**

"I was thinking we could do black velvet with this, uh, fur trim around the neck…"

It was all finally happening—Angela was sitting alongside Will Drake at his desk in the upscale penthouse that towered over the rest of the Hotel Cortez. Iris had reclaimed her job briefly while she was away, because Angela's plan was to, while modelling Drake's new fashions inspired by her, do her part in the group effort to oust the Countess Elizabeth. Knowing that she had no choice but to do so as a duty to protect herself, she felt it justified to help her friends get revenge on her for the things she was said to have done.

Will had just planned out an ebony-colored coat with fur at the end of the sleeves and at the collar.

"Uh…w-wait, is this _real_ fur?" Angela asked.

"No, no," Will said, "I have to be considerate of the people who wear my creations. Not everyone takes so lightly to fur."

"That's why I asked," she said.

"I like that about you," Will revealed, finishing the sketch of the mock mink fur without shading or coloring it in.

"What?"

"You care about your image. You want others to see you as a good person," he explained, leaning back in his chair and putting the pencil behind his ear. "Righteous…not willing to _kill_ for fashion. It's horrible how they treat animals for their fur nowadays."

There was a silence between them, and Angela took a moment to fix her pleated, knee-length skirt made of a see-through black fabric over a thin dark gray slip. She watched him take out a few other sketches, and immediately noticed they were all in full color and detail with the model's likeness errily similar to Angela.

"I made some other sketches to show you," Will said. "Sorry if I didn't get your face right."

"It's okay," she laughed. "I'd love to see."

Angela's eyes first settled on what looked to be a poncho-styled sweater drooping off the shoulders of a dress that was a reddish-pink and geometric with a royal purple belt piece attached. The sweater was of pink and white stripes, and the shoes were just classic red pumps.

Nodding with approval, she flipped a page to see the next sketch, which was composed of another Angela-like model with a light-wash denim coat over what looked to be a beige button-up and balloon pants of the same color.

"I want _this_ to be featured in _Vogue_ ," Will pointed out, his fingertip right on the balloon pants. "This outfit _screams_ spring."

 _This is hideous_ , Angela thought.

The next sketch, however, caught her eye and in a rather mysterious way. There was something about the black lace and long, Edwardian-style skirt that she found enigmatic and alluring. The likeness of her in the drawing had her hair up, and the top of the dress was rather revealing of a black tank slip beneath the floral lace pattern. The waist was gathered, the sleeve cuffs were solid, and the skirt was opaque and went down to the ankles to meet with stylish lace-up boots. Will, seeing her quiet enthusiasm and awe of his design, smiled at her and put his arm at the back of her chair.

"I take it you like this one the best," he assumed.

"It is, uh…" she stammered with a smile and a nod, "rather interesting."

"So isn't this."

Angela was shown another eerily-sketched likeness wearing a plain, stark white dress with a pencil silhouette and scalloped sleeves that looked more like a stole on the shoulders. She smiled and compared the two.

"We should have these created first," Will said. "We will need to plan a fitting the next visit you make up here."

"A fitting?"

"Yes," he said proudly. "You are the first to wear these fashions and actually model them. You could be travelling with me, no cost on your part. Think, Paris, New York, Milan, Sydney…all to wear my fashion on the _big_ runways."

The thought of this ran like a daydream reel in Angela's mind, despite the fact that it was half past six in the evening. She pictured herself walking down a Parisian runway, watched by all of fashion's greatest figures wearing everything from evening wear to swim wear, from casual pieces for everyday to spring and fall lines, and gaining a widely-known reputation while doing so. At the same time, giving motivational speeches would also be a part of establishing her image as a famous model. She smiled and grinned to high heaven, realizing her dream was coming true. In fact, she was speechless.

That was until an eerily feminine voice cut into the room's silence like the squeak of a bat in an echoing cave, interrupting Angela's pleasant thoughts and sending chills down her spine.

"I remember New York," the voice crooned softly.

Trying to keep her shocking facial expression subtle with her feline-blue eyes widening, she turned around and knew exactly who it was without any formal introduction. _Elizabeth_ , Angela thought, _it's her_. Trying to hide the fear behind her eyes, Angela gulped silently and just stared at the enigmatic, gaudily-dressed woman in a long white sateen gown gathered at the waist with a frightening shade of blood red making up the satin of her gloves and the accent on her cream-colored turban hat. Her platinum hair was in an elaborate updo, hidden beneath the hat on her crown. Her makeup was flawless, and her enchanting light brown eyes looked frightening and soulless, as though she had sold it off like nothing more than mere property.

Despite this woman's beauty, Angela knew she was a dangerous creature, especially after having seen a mournful Liz over the body of Tristan, and after hearing the testimony of former actress Ramona Royale, but with yet to hear more of Donovan's ordeal. Her eyes remained glued to her, the mystery conveyed through her voice as she held a small, real crystal glass of a strange red beverage.

"I lived in New York, many years ago," she explained with her eyes fixed on Angela. "I loved roaming the streets, devouring the pulse of the city. I miss it very much."

Will looked back and smiled at Elizabeth, who grinned back at him with her red lips in a closed smile.

"Oh, uh…introductions," the designer said, standing up and approaching his bride to-be. "Angela, I want you to meet Elizabeth, my fiancée." He turned to the sickeningly-pale, alabaster-white creature. "Elizabeth, this is Angela Saxon. She is the inspiration behind my new spring line coming up."

Angela played it cool, even though the fact that Elizabeth staring her down was giving her the creeps—"where did you find her?"

"Oh, she's been working here for the past two months, I wanna say," Will said, smiling at Angela. "Is that right, Angela?"

The brunette nodded and feigned a closed smile—"y-yes."

The Countess made her way closer to Angela, who just stared up in awe with fear hidden in her feline-like eyes. Her skin began to grow an immortal cold as she drew nearer, carrying the distinctive scent of lavish perfume with her in a fatally graceful trail of movement. Her enchanting light brown eyes were intoxicating, and her skin was flawless and like carved marble with her sculpted features. Her gloved hands went to the back of the chair Angela was seated in, and before she knew it, the young woman could feel a metal object trailing up the side of her neck, causing her to flinch slightly out of fright.

"Shhh…" Elizabeth sighed, relatively calm in contradiction to her said behaviors, "I am just admiring you."

"H-Huh?"

"You are very beautiful, Miss Saxon," Elizabeth added. "I am so happy that Will has chosen you to help with his new creations."

"I knew she was the perfect fit," Will added with a proud smile. "Literally, too. Did you see her at the opening gala on the runway?" He paused. "That was her _first_ fashion show."

The enigmatic, vampy creature's eyebrows rose as she looked down at the young woman with surprise—"you had me fooled."

 _Oh no_ , Angela thought, her heart sinking with trepidation _, is she going to cut my throat, too? What the hell is that on her finger? A claw?_ She began to scream in her head over and over; _please don't kill me, please don't kill me, please don't…_

"I thought you were a professional," the Countess added, taking the strange, talon-like appendage away from her neck and walking an inch away to peer down at her fiancé's works and immediately noticing the eerily-drawn likeness to Angela in each.

"She used to model," Will said, speaking for Angela, which came as a relief to her, "but I got her back into it. Our first shoot will hopefully be as soon as these are made. She's been a maid this whole time."

The room fell silent, and the Countess looked straight into Angela's eyes, peering into her soul in a rather calculating manner. "Iris never told me about you."

"Uh…r-really?" Angela questioned, her voice speeding up slightly as she stammered. "She, uh…s-she didn't?"

"No," she said. "She usually tells me everything that goes on around here."

"Well, I happened to know," Will cut in with a smile at Elizabeth. "I own this hotel now."

"Soon, we will _both_ own it," Elizabeth said with a sip of the strange, sanguine-like liquid in her clear, real crystal glass.

"That's right, my dear," Will smirked, being approached by his wife to be.

Angela set her eyes on the two as they hugged each other, but what made her most nervous was the claw-like appendage attached to her blood-red satin glove on her finger. Sighing, she looked down at the sketch of the interesting black dress of Will's design, immediately catching the Countess' attention.

"That is beautiful, _Mr. Drake_ ," Angela heard her say with endearment.

"Thank you." He smiled and looked over Angela's shoulder along with the Countess—the fact that she was behind her make her heart rate rise rapidly and with wild abandon; a need to survive in the face of death herself. "In fact, this is one of Angela's favorites, too."

"Is that right?"

"Uh…" Angela was nervous, gulping softly. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"We have a lot in common, Miss Saxon," Elizabeth said. "The lace in that bodice will be beautiful against your pale skin."

"T-Thank you, miss," Angela said blankly.

"You are truly a lovely woman," Elizabeth added. "Paris and New York's runways will be so lucky to have you walking over them. Like a dark angel fallen from grace."

 _Fallen from grace_ , she thought to herself as she saw the intimidating claw on Elizabeth's glove trace over the drawing of the skirt part of the black lace dress, _I already have_.

"Please, Miss Saxon," Elizabeth suggested, "will you stay for a while longer?"

"Oh…uh…"

"She cannot, my dear," Will said nervously, putting a hand on the young woman's shoulder, "uh, she needs to get back downstairs to work."

"Why work as a maid," Elizabeth rhetorized, "when you could be doing what you _love_? Following your dream, Miss Saxon?"

"I was recently promoted." Those were the only words Angela said straight without stammering the entire time of being there; she felt fearless.

"Our next meeting is in a week, dear," Will said to his fiancée as he began to lead Angela out of the room and from the desk, giving her enough time to grab her purse. "You can see her then."

"I will be back," Angela said in a monotone, putting the straps of her back on her shoulder.

"Great progress tonight," Will smiled at the young brunette. "I will have great ideas next week to go over with you, and we will work out a fitting for those two designs."

"Sounds good," Angela smiled, making her way to the door and looking at Elizabeth, still standing there ceremoniously. "I-It was nice to meet you."

"You as well," Elizabeth said with a nod.

Yet the striking fear of the woman sent chills up her spine— _thank god she didn't kill me_ , she thought, _but at least I am making progress. Iris will be so proud_.

* * *

John had seen enough, heard enough, and wanted answers.

He would do anything to get them, especially after witnessing the suicide of Wren, one of the towheads inhabiting the hotel. Seeing the girl bid him goodbye and run out in front of the Mack truck to her death was enough to make anyone snap mentally, but oddly enough, he did not. If anything, the truck driver's extreme remorse did not move him, though he was fully aware of the man living with killing a child for the rest of his life and the trauma associated with it.

Without any further words and the police surrounding the tragic scene of the girl who protected the killer of John's pursuit, he walked away and made his way to the Hotel Cortez.

On his way through the doors and into the vast, luxurious lobby with art-deco architecture, a red and gold color scheme, and crimson red upholstered lounge chairs, he looked at the front receptionist's desk to his right and saw Angela sitting there with her hands on the desk, looking down complacently as she waited for a guest to check in. She seemed to sense his presence, as he immediately noticed her feline-shaped, distinctive azure eyes turn upwards to him and widen in surprise.

"J-John?" she asked. "What the…where did you go? I haven't seen you."

"He's in here," he replied forcefully.

"Who?"

"The killer!" John shouted. "The Ten Commandments Killer! He's here!"

Angela just shook her head, her facial expression bewildered and baffled—"what the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"I'm tired of being lied to!" he shouted. "I saw a girl die just to protect him! WHERE IS HE?"

"Oh my god," Angela gasped sadly, barely able to imagine seeing the dead child as he described, "I'm so _sorry_ , John…I…"

When he came around and went to the small, waist-high door to the space behind the desk, she stopped him subtly.

"No, you can't be back here," she told him. "E-Employees only."

That didn't stop him; he opened it and with as much force as he could, he pushed the young brunette against the wall, causing her further distress and intimidation. His hands gripped her shoulders so hard that it hurt, and her back felt the poking of the many keys of unoccupied rooms hanging in wait to be handed to a guest. Her lips were parted, and her heart beat rapidly, fearful of his apparent violent tendencies.

"OW!" Angela shouted. "Let me go!"

"I'm tired of playing games!" he growled in her face; she got a whiff of what smelled like lack of teethbrushing in days. "WHERE IS HE?"

"Let me go, you _fucker_!" Angela shouted, pushing him away finally and grabbing the front collar of the shirt given to him at the institution. "If you _EVER_ touch me again, I'll cut you like a _fucking pig_!"

"JOHN!" a voice called out.

Looking to his right, he saw the all-too-familiar Sally, standing there with her kinky, bottle-blonde hair tangled and mangled around her sloppily made-up face. Her arms were crossed over her chest, clad in a disastrous clash of a polka dot dress and torn fishnet tights with a pair of strappy heeled sandals and her trademark velvet cameo choker. Angela, a stickler for bad fashion, kept silent as she unhanded John's shirt collar and straightened her back, watching him adjust his shirt before going over to Sally and starting up again.

"Where is he?" he asked with force. "The man I'm hunting is in this hotel! WHERE IS HE?"

Sally looked down and sighed, tears flooding her terribly-done eyes and running down slowly to smudge her upper cheeks.

"Fine. You want to know where the Ten Commandments Killer has been hiding?" she asked, trying to get some form of subtle reassurance. "I'll take you there." John and Angela watched her take something from her pocket, handing it to him with their faces so close together that they could have kissed like lovers. "You might want to take this with you, in case you find what you're looking for."

The heroin addict walked toward the elevator with John, who followed behind her badly-dressed form vehemently as Angela followed them by only a few steps. To not make things so obvious, she went up the staircase instead to where she assumed was the second floor, and hid behind a corner turn wall as she spied on John and Sally walking down to his own room he had rented—Room 64. She paid attention, managing to stay completely silent as she overheard their dialogue.

"Is this a joke?" John questioned with aggravation. "You're telling me he's in _this_ room?"

"I'm telling you," Sally whispered, "there are answers on the other side of this door."

Seeing the woman turn the key into the door, she unlocked it and opened it, pushing it inward and seeing John's intense blue eyes scanning his surroundings. No one was there but he and Sally, so when Angela sprinted on her tip-toes to the door to peek inside discreetly with one sharp eye. Sally began to speak again as her heels hit the aged, greenish carpet.

"This used to be where James March's office was," she indicated. "Did you know that?"

"James March is dead."

"In fact, this is where he died," Sally added. "February 25 at 2:25 in the morning. Slit his throat after shooting his laundress dead."

"Why the hell did you bring me back here, Sally?" John questioned angrily, his fists at his sides. "Why am I here?! NO ONE IS HERE!"

"Uh…" Sally thought for a moment, "pull the armoire out. You'll find what you're looking for in there."

 _The armoire_ , Angela thought as she continued to spy, _what could be back there? Is this killer hiding back there?_

As soon as Sally and John were distracted enough by the events occurring that moment, including John's concentration in channeling his strength into the heavy, old wardrobe blocking the wall, Angela stepped in, hearing the floor creak slightly as she rushed to hide behind a lounge chair to avoid being noticed. When she peeked an eye out to see him opening what looked to be the door of a vault, she saw both he and Sally walk into a mysterious room projecting a white light from the inside.

When they were both in, Angela crawled toward the moved armoire and remained hidden from sight behind the wall separating the suite from the mysterious vault. The first thing she noticed was the stark white walls of the interior, and a table that looked like props from the set of a Frankenstein production—glass jars holding body parts taken from cadavers, perhaps for research or for one's sick obsession with anatomy. Angela felt a chill go down her spine, and her lips trembling more and more as Sally began to describe what was before John.

"Jesus," John muttered. "How long has this been here?"

"Since the beginning," Sally said, looking at the jar furthest to the left containing a pallid severed hand propped up in formaldehyde. "This is the hand of a thief. 'Thou shalt not steal.' That was the first one. He was killed in 1926, and March took his hand for his violation of the commandment."

She continued, working her way to the next one, which contained a string of yellowing teeth displayed beneath a bell jar crazy-glued to the bottom base. "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy." She paused, "teeth. These were harvested from a field of migrant workers. They were desperate for work and needed to feed their families. This is what they got for not controlling that."

Then there was what Angela interpreted as the stereotypical brain model seen in anatomy classes, remembering one from her high school days—"'Thou shall not worship false idols.' This was what was left of Martin Gamboa's brain after his skull was bashed open."

Angela was shocked at what she was hearing—having to live with the fact that she killed two people did not compare to whatever this enigmatic killer had done to his victims.

"Wait," John said, shaking his head and looking rather uncomfortable. "No serial killer has a 90-year lull."

"If it's taken him this long to find a successor, then _yes_ , one _can_ ," Sally explained, the tears in her eyes that also stuck to her face like adhesive glue. "March needed someone to complete his work. He died before he could do it himself."

Then, Angela's eyes followed Sally's voice as she explained the contents of the next jar, which included preserved eyeballs and a tongue, apparently ripped from the victim; "Thou shall not commit adultery.' This was James Briggs' tongue and eyes, taken while he was still alive."

"No, no," John disagreed quickly, "that's bullshit. The parts cut out of James Briggs are in the lab. I catalogued it myself! I investigated that scene!"

"Honor thy mother and thy father." Sally's description of the next jar made Angela feel dizzy at the sight of two, perfectly-intact human hearts, every line and artery perfectly preserved. "The hearts of two ungrateful children. They murdered both of their parents in order to inherit the family fortune."

"The Rylance twins!" he recalled.

Sally continued; "Thou shalt not bear false witness." This jar held tongues and what looked to be the upper part of a tracheal tube. "Gossip mongers. After he nailed their slanderous tongues to their desks, he ripped out their vocal cords."

Angela had no words, no thoughts, not even an idea of how someone could be as evil as to commit such heinous acts. She watched as the badly-dressed addict finished with the final jar on the table, containing what looked to be an abdominal organ; '"Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain." She sniffled, looking at John, who seemed strangely fixated on the jar. "He was a false prophet who would go on television and vent his spleen. So the killer took it."

"I…I don't understand," the former police detective said, shaking his head with a look of horror in his intense eyes. "He would have had to have been bringing these things back while I was still here. Who let him in?"

Angela felt her bones chilled by Sally's next sentence, knowing full well what she meant; "nobody let him in. He had a _key_."

That was all it took for Angela to fully realize the extent of this situation, gasping to herself as she felt her jaw drop a hundred feet and her eyes bulge from her sockets. _I can't believe it_ , she thought to herself, _John is the killer. How could he do that_?!

"What?" John asked her, shaking his head—Angela saw tears in his eyes, and Sally took his hand like he were a child who had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar.

"Take my hand."

"What? No." Now, he was flustered but on the brink of a breakdown of tears and sobbing.

"John, take my hand," Sally insisted, "it's okay. It's all okay. You're here with me."

"No, no!" he exclaimed, taking her hand as told. "I don't remember! I don't remember _any_ of this! I _can't_ be the killer! _No_! I CAN'T BE!"

"It's true," Sally confirmed solemnly. "It's all true. I can't believe how much this place has torn you apart inside. You will begin to remember everything in full detail. Not right away, but you _will_. Everything you've done, you will do _again_. Some commandments are _missing_ , and need to be _filled_ , John. Mr. March depends on you to finish his legacy."

Angela refused to let this sink in. In fact, it was hard to do so. How on earth could a location alone split a man's personality in two? At least that's how she understood it. After all, she had sexual relations with him, and while he did seem aggressive when he wanted, she didn't think he was a bad person until seeing him break down in front of Sally and the jars of trophies taken from the victims of the Ten Commandments murders.

 _How could he be so evil_ , she asked herself.

* * *

She ended up happening to walk on the same floor as Room 64, which was mysteriously open with the door past ajar. It was two days after the fact, and though she couldn't quite wrap her head around what she learned about the former detective, she did not feel so frightened anymore, especially since she had killed two people herself. Yet the circumstances were different—somehow, she felt like relating to him.

Stepping into the threshold of the room, she saw John sitting in a lounge chair with his back hunched forward and his elbows on his knees as if in deep thought. Angela felt strangely attuned to the fact that he probably saw her standing there, but the fear was absent from her eyes. Yet her heart sank with fright when he stared back at her.

"Hey."

She remained silent, but he continued.

"What are you doing?"

"Routine hotel checks," Angela said in a professional monotone.

"What are you checking for?" John asked.

"Safety."

"But nothing is safe," John said. "Justice doesn't exist anymore."

Angela sighed before saying anything, remaining quiet in her place as she stood in the doorway—"no shit."

His eyes widened, looking at her. "Uh…"

" _You_ are clearly a danger," she said, but not with enough boldness to tempt him to take her life if he so chose. "But so am I." She paused, stepping into the room gingerly and closing the door slightly behind her for added privacy, knowing full well she was playing with a roaring fire. "John."

He looked up at her, complying with her request: "talk and I'll listen."

And so he began.

"I remember where it all began now," he said, "and not a doubt in my mind about it. It all started those first few days and nights at the Hotel Cortez. That was about two months ago, but…apparently I was here before. The murders also happened months before that, too." He paused and avoided eye contact at all costs. "The first time I walked into the Hotel Cortez was five years ago. I know that now. It was the same night we caught that multiple deaths call in Glassell Park, the one I told you about with the dead family and the dad's gunshot and asphyxiation of his kids. Do you remember?"

"I do if you do," she nodded.

"Anyway," he continued, "I needed a few drinks before I could bring myself to go home. More than a few. It's not as easy as you would think to find a drink in the middle of the night in Los Angeles. I went to the bar, met this transvestite…"

"Liz?"

"Yes." He cleared his throat. "And…this man…Donovan…offered to pay for my martini."

 _Donovan_ , she thought to herself, _is he involved?_

"I thought he wanted to be gay with me," John continued. "I was married, and only looking to drink myself to death. He invited me upstairs to the seventh floor, and I remember hearing a man screaming at the top of his lungs, and this…blonde woman coming to the door…she introduced herself as The Countess."

 _Elizabeth_ , Angela thought to herself, _it can't be. This is not possible._

"She tried to flirt, but I rebuffed her. The man screaming was Mr. March," John stated. "It looked like a costume party. He hated that Donovan disturbed his get-together with the woman. She was dressed in a black gown with sparkles, and Mr. March…was something out of a silver screen movie. Talked like one, too." He glanced at Angela, who looked at him and listened. "He gave me absinthe. We got acquainted. Talked about different things. He even said he saw my aura, and it was blacker than the ace of spades. I sad he was full of shit, but he came back with the fact that I was full of rage. I was a man who was willing to do bad to do good."

Angela controlled herself from shaking her head to show any sign of personal bias or disdain for his actions as she continued to listen.

"We drank his absinthe. We talked for two straight days," he recalled, sitting back in the chair before standing up and pacing. "We talked about the law and about the meaning of true purpose and the meaningless of everything else. Most importantly, he helped me forget everything that ever bothered me."

"I…see," Angela said nervously as he stood up. "W-What bothered you at home, though? B-Besides your…uh…w-wife?"

"It was my wife, mostly," John said. "When I was gone those two days, it was like I lost time. I found myself in my car in the driver's seat parked in front of my house. I go in, and my wife is angry with me. I told her I didn't cheat on her, and that she would have known if I did, because according to her, if I did, I would have called and lied about my whereabouts. I was a terrible husband, apparently. I held Holden, and it was one of the last times I ever held him. I announced a spontaneous plan to go to the carnival at the beach…w-where he was taken."

"I remember you…uh, told me," Angela said quietly.

"Along with my son I lost everything else that mattered to me," he went on. "There was always something more to do, until there wasn't, and after the house was empty, I was never more alone than being there with my wife. I was never the same again after Holden went missing. There was only one place I could feel any measure of peace." Angela just gasped to herself at his next piece of testimony; "I began to live two different lives. One at home with Alex, where a minute lasted every bit of a minute. The other, with Mr. March at the Cortez.

"Time had a different way of passing here. Five years went by like rapid fire. Mr. March's voice was like a silk thread, a thin strand that would wrap around my head before burrowing inside me with his ideas. I went into work the next day, and the night before, I threatened to report March's crimes to police, but I barely knew the fact he was dead. I was in court testifying for a case, and every minute I sat there, I knew Mr. March's ideas about the law were right. The law had nothing to do with justice. All I began to see was just how perverted justice is."

Angela just stared at him, disgusted by his personal account as she continued to feed her ears, standing there as he paced and avoided eye contact.

"He told me a story about a guest who checked in with a young boy, taking him to the theme parks around here. He also showed me nude Polaroid photographs of the boy. He was just a child, forced into those…disgusting positions…so…I went and I bludgeoned him to death under the pretenses of responding to a Craigslist ad he posted."

"T-That was his brain…i-in the jar…i-in the room?" Angela stammered.

"Part of it, yes."

"Pedophilia is a crime that should _never_ be unpunished but… _why did you take his brain_?" she questioned.

"Because that wasn't his only sin," he said. "The boy was only ten." He sighed again. "Then there was Sally. She was there for me. I never thought of cheating on my wife, but with Sally, I felt…I don't know…a rush every time we had sex. It was with her I saw the preacher on TV."

"T-The organ in the jar?" she asked.

"His spleen," John confessed. "I stuffed him full of coins until he exploded. He took the Lord's name in vain. But…I remember I tried to hang myself."

"You…did?"

"Yes. Sally didn't want to stop me until Mr. March made her. He cut me down. I lived. They had an agreement. I would be hers forever if I completed his quest for killings under the Ten Commandments," he revealed. "Nothing was real. I didn't remember Sally or Mr. March when I left the Cortez. This place is a cruel mistress, wrapping you on the back of the head when you leave, and nursing you back to health when you came back. Mr. March encouraged me to continue his legacy in memory of Holden. I felt like every time I killed a man, I was getting revenge on the one who stole my son."

"B-But…" Angela was cut off.

"And I've done it since."

That was the end of what he wanted to tell of his story, and Angela just stood there, looking at him with awe and disgust of how evil he truly was inside. In a way, it was the events and trauma in his life that caused it, but at the same time, he could have controlled himself, in Angela's opinion. As he drew nearer to her, she had the courage to look up into his eyes with tears in her feline-like corners, wiping them away with a guilt-filled frown on her face.

"I…I am so appalled," she told him. "Disgusted…but I would be a hypocrite t-to say that."

John looked down at her, his eyes intense and hawk-like, stabbing her soul; "and why is that?"

"B-Because," she revealed, "I k-killed two people one night."

There was a silence, and John just saw her start to cry, biting her lower lip and shaking her head at the memories and flashbacks of her repeatedly stabbing and slashing at the hipsters before Iris stepped in a fed from Justin's, the man, slit throat as a geyser of blood flowed into her mouth. He watched her wail excessively, putting his hands in his back pockets.

"I…I didn't want to kill them!" she cried as sobs cut her individual breaths in half each time. "T-This place has fucked me up a lot…I…I didn't want to kill them! Really! They m-made me incredibly angry…I couldn't hold it in…I didn't mean to…"

 _sing-JAB!_

Angela gasped suddenly, feeling excruciating, mind-numbing pain as she felt the pressure of something sharp enter the top part of her upper left ribcage. Looking down, she immediately saw the handle of a serrated knife sticking out while the blade was embedded in her chest. Seeing the blood start to come out, she looked at John in shock and felt her skin grow cold at not only the significant loss of blood but what he said to her.

"Thou shalt not kill," he grunted. "Admit what you've done, and I may show you mercy."

"AH!" she screamed, trying to pull out the knife handle, screaming in distress. "HELP! _HELP!_ "

She fell to the carpet, which was now as saturated with sanguine fluid as the aged rug was, and she crawled while leaving a more prominent trail of blood in her wake. The door was still ajar, and the moment she tried to reach for it, she saw John go in front of her and close it, kicking her in the jaw as she struggled to get the knife blade out of her upper left chest. Blood emanated from her mouth, and she felt faint as she heard the voice of a savior come into the room.

"WHAT THE _FUCK_ DID YOU DO TO HER?" she heard another man scream, noticing its familiarity.

 _BANG!_

The sound was made by what sounded like a metal object, like a pan or a metal tray she had often seen in the hotel during her time working there.

The next minute, she sees a familiar face in her line of vision, that of a man with piercing blue eyes and a pompadour, but she didn't know who—her eyesight seemed to be blacking out.

It had been Donovan—John was lying unconscious on the floor and Angela was now resting in his arms, dying her violent death.

"Angela! Angela!" he shouted, putting her bloodied hand to his face. "Can you hear me?!"

Her response was weak, but she let out a sharp scream and a gush of blood straight from her heart as he pulled out the knife's blade with full force.

" _AAAHHHHHHHH!_ "

"Angela, please…" She could hear the subtle sound of the usual sniffling that often came with crying. "I'm here…please…"

"H-H-H….Hospital…" she groaned.

"No, no. It's too late for that…I can do better…"

Noticing she was on the tip of the brink of her final breath, Donovan used the knife John had used to try to kill Angela as his next Ten Commandments victim and immediately slit his wrist straight across and let the blood gush out and drip onto Angela pale, lifeless mouth. As he let his virus-rich blood flow from his afflicted veins, he cried and secretly prayed that the fatal wound near her heart would be healed as a result from the turning of Angela's dead, mortal form. The minute he looked down from his shut, teary eyes, he saw her mouth begin to move as she lapped at his blood weakly like a neglected cat who hadn't drunk milk in weeks. As her drinking progressed, he encouraged it as he remembered the day he resurrected his mother, Iris.

"There you go," he whispered. "It's okay…y-you'll be fine…much better…come on, Angela…drink…"

Then came the moment she stopped drinking, and Donovan immediately began to notice changes in the wound John had inflicted on her during his attempt to kill her. Her eyes were only half-open, just barely seeing what was to come after her mortal death.

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **So Angela is officially turned and afflicted! And by Donovan, too, so that gives any of you Donovan x Angela shippers hope!**

 **Please leave a Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow!**

 **Thanks and stay tuned!**


	18. Chapter 17

_**~ chapter seventeen ~**_

The next time Angela opened her eyes, it was to see nothing but a vintage light fixture hanging from the ceiling. She also found herself lying on the top of a bed with different clothing than what she was wearing, consisting of an oversized shirt only half-way buttoned up so it met to the base of her ribcage, and she noticed she was no longer wearing a bra or pants over her only remaining undergarment. She was also barefoot, and her skin felt cold and looked even paler than before as it stretched across her bones. Her vision was still slightly blurred, but it gradually came back as she made out the faces of Pamela, who was sitting at the bedside, Donovan, Iris, and Liz. Ramona was also present, but instead of the stern look of hatred on her face, it was a countenance expressing concern and fear, something she had never expected from her.

Before she knew it, she felt the left flap of the top of her half-unbuttoned shirt be pulled over gently, and she could see it was Pamela and her analytical blue-gray eyes looking at where John has stabbed her.

"I'm surprised she lived. Not a mark there anymore," she heard the police psychic say.

"Had Dono not did what he did," Iris added, sounding sad and tearful, "we would've lost her."

"That…uh, _thing_ you have," Pamela said, "does a hell of a good job healing. I didn't think it would be that fast."

Angela's eyes were fully open now, and Pamela was the first to notice she looked quite different, like she had gone beyond herself and back. Angela, having noticed way before, knew she _felt_ different—she felt herself reflexively shiver and put her arms slowly to her sides as her toes curled.

"W-Why am I so cold? W-Where am I?" she questioned with confusion.

"You survived," Ramona said with a strange sense of victory. "You almost died back there. Donovan saved you, sugar."

"Give me some clothes," the brunette demanded. "I'm freezing. _Please_."

"You already are wearing them. That's all I could find," Iris said nonchalantly. "You'll get used to it. We are always cold."

Her feline-like eyes were now sparking with vitality but widened in disbelief as she tried to figure out why and how she survived the fatal wound John had inflicted in her chest—" _We?_ "

"Angela," Donovan said, coming forward and sitting on the edge of the bed across from Pamela and adjacent to the newly afflicted brunette. He seemed to have tears in his eyes, which she noticed right off the bat—"had I not turned you, you surely w-would have died. We can't lose you."

" _What?!_ " she asked forcefully, shaking her head. "I…I don't—"

"Being turned is better than being dead in this place," Pamela said as she sat. "Believe me, I would know."

She couldn't believe her ears—now she knew. She was now one of the afflicted, now a vampire-like creature who would drink from slit throats to survive and live forever as a twenty-four year old. In an instant, she swung her legs off the edge of the bed and stood up, looking around and seeing Iris, Liz, and Ramona standing there watching her with Pamela and Donovan sitting behind her. Looking down, she saw the fatal wound was healed to completion; not a scar, not a drop of blood, nothing. In fact, when she walked to the mirror on the vanity table, she plopped on the stool and stared at her reflection to notice there wasn't any blood on her face, either it had been washed off or disappeared by other means. There wasn't even a single blemish on her smooth, alabaster visage. Her feline-eyes sparkled with pure vitality and life, and they were a more intense shade of blue. Her eyelashes looked way fuller, and her lips had a striking natural color to them.

When she lifted her upper lip, she put a finger to feel around for sharpened canine teeth, but Ramona went over and took her hand away.

"No, sugar," she whispered. "We don't have sharp teeth like the movies."

Then suddenly, Angela broke down in disbelief as bewilderment caused more anxiety to build up and flood over. Leaning forward, she sobbed relentlessly as tears fell on the table. Liz went behind her and began to rub her back as she watched the newly afflicted cry her eyes out. When she suddenly shouted to help her relieve her fears, she looked at Donovan and projected it toward him.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!"

"I _saved_ you!" he shouted back.

"DONO!" Iris shrieked. "Stop it right now! _Enough_!"

"NO!" Angela cried out. "I never wanted this! Why didn't you just leave me to _die_?!"

"We couldn't do that!" Iris shouted. "We need you, and we care way too much for you to just lie dead on a hotel room floor with your clothes soaked in blood!"

Pamela stood up from the chair at the bedside and went straight to Angela's side, seeing her with her flawless hands at her temples as she began to seethe angrily at her for her ungrateful attitudes toward Donovan and what he did to save the young woman's life.

"Do you fucking know what it's _like_ to be _stuck_ in this place?!" the police psychic asked rhetorically, flattening her palm against the surface of the vanity table. "Had you died, you'd be like _me_ , wandering around these damn halls like a lost soul. This place is no fun for people who die here! I died here, and I am doomed to spend an eternity here! Do you understand me, princess? You're still alive and can leave to see the outside! I can't! I'm stuck! Don't you see how better off you are than _me_?!"

"B-But I NEVER WANTED THIS!" Angela cried back, a sob cracking her voice. "I wanted to live my life and die warm in my bed of _old age_! I wanted to get _married_ , have _kids_ , be a model, a nice house, a nice car…a dog…I can't have that now! Never! I'm RUINED!"

"You're _not_ ruined, Angela!" Iris exclaimed as Pamela moved a few steps back and let her talk. Liz helped her turn around in the vanity stool and the newly afflicted looked up at Iris; "you listen to me, and you listen good. You are _way_ better off than even _me_. I was turned very late in life, as you know, and I would do anything to have my mortality back. I am stuck as an old fart forever, and you are young and beautiful and will stay that way for the eternity you live out. Do you understand? Do you know how easy you have it?"

 _They have a point_ , Angela thought, _maybe I was destined to become a part of this place. I came here for a reason, maybe_.

"I…I can't live like this," she said under her breath as tears fell. "I want to leave. I don't want to be here anymore. I can't…I want to go home."

"You can't," Iris said. "The world can be quite dangerous if you go out there alone. The minute they trace a murder back to you just because you needed to _feed_ , you're a goner. Imagine having to spend a life term in prison, never aging and always staying there. That is a _worse_ existence, girlie."

"It's no different," Angela cried. "Don't you see? Keeping me _here_ …you're keeping me prisoner. I don't want to be here. I don't want to live like this, and I don't have to."

"We are going to find your place," Liz promised calmly, "and we are going to arrange to have all of your belongings moved to the hotel. You can live in my room with me and take the spare bed until you find a more permanent room to—"

"I…I can't, Liz…"

"Yes, you can," Iris said, "and you will."

"Who died and left YOU God?!" the young woman shouted, standing up and looking down at Iris. "I don't need to listen to you! I don't have to listen to ANYONE! You _hear_ me?! I don't want to live like this! I'm a monster! I DON'T HAVE TO LIVE LIKE THIS! If I have to KILL just so I can continue a MISERABLE eternal existence, then I would rather kill MYSELF!"

Seeing that the door to what she remembered to be Liz's room open, she scurried out of their presences with Pamela running after her, as well as Donovan, Ramona, and Liz, but they couldn't catch up to her, before they knew it, the elevator door was closing with her behind it, and though they tried to stop her, they couldn't.

The elevator just kept going up further until it hit the seventh floor, where she got off and walked around.

Tears still flooded the newly-afflicted's eyes, but she needed relief from this immediately.

 _No more killing, no more violence, I won't have it_ , Angela thought to herself.

Walking aimlessly down the hallway, she desperately looked for an open door. After stopping to sob heavily against the wall, she felt her once-mortal heart rapidly start beating as the tears fell from her face. She shut her eyes, and the tears flooded them so much that she nearly toppled over from not being able to see through their delusive clarity.

She ended up walking into a room that resembled an office, but paid no mind to the surroundings except for a large window behind the leather swivel chair belonging to the desk. There were curtains billowing toward the desk because of the wind outside, but it did not faze her much; in fact, it gave her ideas as she approached it and found the way to open one up, turning the crank and pulling the glass pane inwards.

It did not faze her looking out down below either; in fact, it gave her some relief, knowing full well she would escape the hotel many were damned to be in forever by death or affliction, as well as the eternal life she was given and by Donovan and forced to have by those she believed cared about her.

She stood up straight, looking down at the few passing cars below as she put one knee on the sill of the window, preparing to jump before feeling her mouth covered by a gloved hand.

"Hmmp!" she screamed.

"Sh!" the voice hushed, but she felt even more disturbed at the sensation of the other hand wrapping around her and going over her breasts. "Remain calm."

The voice was unfamiliar—" _hmph_!"

"Your heart is beating like a hummingbird!" the voice said again.

The voice was definitely masculine with a distinctive pitch and accent, and the gloved hand was removed from her mouth. Angela looked back at the man holding her and saw every detail of his face. Though very handsome, she was reminded of a Clark Gable film, as the man was dressed in an extravagant suit with pinstripes and a dark peach ascot in place of a tie. His dark hair was styled and combed neatly, though not in a way popular for guys during present day. His eyes were the most outstanding, noticeable feature due to their dark, nearly black, color and intensity; much like a seething devil at an angel of light. She was speechless—he was breathtaking.

"L-Let me go…" she sobbed softly.

"Shh, shh," the man lulled, noticing her tears and taking out what looked to be a tissue or handkerchief to wipe them away. "There is no need to cry, my dear."

"L-Let me go…please, let me off myself…" she sobbed softly, pleading kindly so he could perhaps let her do so.

But his response was chilling, his extremely dark brown eyes peering down at her as his mustachioed upper lip moved as he spoke—"No, I don't suppose I will." He paused, his face turning into a smile that nearly frightened the mortal life back into Angela; "in fact, I may _never_ let you go."

* * *

Angela was given a glass of cognac by the man who saved her from herself—it was James March. Knowing right off the bat who he was, she was confused as to why he had demonstrated kindness and sincerity to her when all she heard about him was that he was a sadistic serial killer who mastered the art of killing and getting away with it. He also offered her a cigarette, which she took and let him light it at his discretion.

"Tell me, Miss…"

"Saxon," she replied, her voice cracking. "Angela Saxon is my name."

"Miss _Saxon_ ," he droned sensually, sitting across from her in his lounge chair as he smoked from his pipe and adjusted the dark peach ascot around his neck. "Can you perhaps explain to me why you insisted on opening my window and jumping from it?"

Angela just stared at him, the smoke emanating from her cigarette in between a drag; "isn't it obvious?"

"Nothing is obvious. I am slightly confused," the man answered with a drag from his pipe.

"I'm stuck living like this…this, _monster_ ," she tried explaining. "I don't want to kill. I don't want to see anymore death. I just…" She grew tearful again, and he drew nearer after getting out of his chair. "I just want to _leave_!"

March crouched in front of her, uncovering her face being held in her hands as his gloved ones pulled them away. She was lulled by him even though the situation was really distressing for her, and she felt the same tissue or handkerchief go to her eyes, and when they were wiped away, she took a breath and felt his intense gaze boring into her soul. It was not as hostile as he was said to act, in fact not even that at all—it was calm, and his gaze hypnotized her so much that she barely noticed him inching his face toward hers with his hands resting at her knees.

"You are so beautiful, my dear," he said with a sly, seductive smile. She felt him holding her hand and bringing it up to her lips to kiss it; she noticed he nearly shivered. "Did my Elizabeth turn you?"

She cocked an eyebrow up, still entranced by him looking at her the way he did; "n-no…but, how did you—"

"Elizabeth was my wife," March said, provoking a nod from Angela. "She was turned after our marriage. She still lives, albeit miserably. Before my demise, she turned me in. She had all of my riches, but then she did something with it. I am uncertain as to what."

"I am sorry," Angela said.

"Please, my dear," March replied, putting a hand to her cheek. "It is no worry or concern to you."

"I…I just…feel bad…" she replied.

There was a silence, and she could feel him inching closer to her as she sat put in the chair, still scantily clad in nothing but the oversized shirt and her panties, barefoot with no pants to hide her legs from this perfect stranger who was clearly a ghost. March took his hand from her face and put it back on her knee with the other one, working his way up her thighs with slight, slow caresses.

"Uh…s-sir…"

"James, to you," he replied with the same seductive smile.

"W-What are you doing? I…I can't…"

"You are no monster," he told her. "You will be beautiful forever. Whoever turned you made the right choice."

"It was no choice. Donovan did," the brunette said solemnly. "I nearly died, but I hate every minute being like this."

He moved his face back an inch, tilting his head back with skepticism—"you nearly perished? How?"

"Well…it's a long story," Angela said, nearly cringing at the memory of John impaling her chest with the knife he had on hand. "I was nearly killed."

"Oh?"

"You may know the man who tried…his name is John Lowe."

His face seemed to lighten up a little bit, nodding with a smirk on his face—" _did_ he?"

"Yes," Angela said, not pleased. "He's the reason I was turned. He stabbed me near the heart. I nearly bled to death."

"Which commandment did you break, my dear?" he questioned.

"Uh…" Angela just looked at him and shook her head. "I…I don't understand…what you mean….wait, I mean, I do… _now_ I do, but—"

"We are missing a few offenders," he recalled. "'Thou shalt not kill' was one of them. Is it safe to assume you performed that action, my dear?"

Angela just stared at him—"why? So you could kill me, too?"

"I could never be so cruel as to take someone as beautiful as you away from this ugly, brutal world," March denied, putting his hand to her cheek again. "It also would be illogical, for you must kill to survive yourself."

"But I don't _want_ to, sir," she answered with desperation, getting more tearful in her expression of remorse. "Believe me! I only killed them out of pure anger!"

"So you _have_ killed before?"

Angela answered hesitantly—"y-yes…I have…"

His answer was much unexpected, and disturbingly high-pitched with excitement—"splendid!"

"Wait," she interjected with a shocked look on her face in response to the rather weird reaction by March. " _Why_ did you start these…killings?"

"I began in 1926, my dear," he said, his hands gripping her knees tighter with each word and making her feel a different sort of uncomfortable. "I feel the urge was ignited in my childhood. My father was a true believer. He attended mass and ate the little cracker and drank the wine every Sunday. Despite this, he was the _meanest_ son of a bitch you've ever seen. He had the audacity to kill our family's cat for purring too loud."

"That's terrible," Angela whined, imagining exactly what he told her.

"When I grew up and became a man," March continued, "I denounced religion. It is the worst thing in this world. That and regulations. It came to the point where I wanted every Bible from every bandstand in this entire hotel out and banished."

"I get it now," the afflicted brunette said, looking away for the first time since he looked at her the way he did. "You hate God and you hate religion."

"Indeed I do," March said. "I decided long ago that with my legacy, I would _kill_ God."

Angela was intimidated, but at the same time, she was glad that she was beginning to know the man behind the killer. She figured it would be hard to sink in that during a short segment of his childhood, he was actually human with feelings and without any unhealthy urges to kill an innocent being. The moment she took the glass of cognac for her second sip the whole time was the same moment he took the glass away and set it on the adjacent coffee table, taking her face in both of his hands and smiling.

"I believe you must be getting back, my dear," he smiled sinisterly, leaning to kiss her on her pale cheek before standing and helping her to his feet like a gentleman. "Please say you will dine with me in this very room Saturday evening at six sharp?"

Her eyes widened—what happened if she were not to say yes?

"Uh…I…I…will consider it," she said to him.

"Oh nonsense, my dear. You can, as I am certain," March said, leading her to the door by the hand.

"Well…I suppose I could," Angela said.

"Splendid."

As she made her way out of the dim room that looked to be an office, she turned to look to her left to see a bed, upon which a man was laying. Being afflicted, she could easily sense the rush of the fresh, mortal blood in his veins. When she realized who it was, seeing the greased raven black hair parted in such a way, she gasped and felt a storm of rage inside her. It was John, still unconscious from when Donovan smacked him on the back of the head.

As soon as she stepped out of the room, she noticed March had disappeared, but she could hear her name being called.

"Angela? Hello? Earth to Angela!"

The brunette took a few steps down the hall to see Pamela, dressed in dark brown flared bell-bottom pants, a mint green peasant blouse with a cape frill on the top, and her fingers heavily covered in rings with her wrists in bangles. Her hair was slightly matted, and her blue-gray eyes attentively looked as she ran to Angela in the distance, throwing her arms around her as though she were a long-lost friend or relative.

"You were saved, weren't you?!" she asked, exclaiming.

"Y-Yes…how did you—"

"Uh, I'm psychic, remember?" the strawberry-blonde asked as Angela responded with a nod.

The two walked further down the hall, and Angela began to start a conversation that left her intrigued.

"I met Mr. March."

"Oh, I already did. Just before I died, I did," Pamela said. "I haven't seen him since. What did he have to say?"

"He wants me to dine with him Saturday night at six…I don't know if that's a good idea," she expressed.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Pamela asked. "You're afflicted now, and Donovan told me you can't really die from whatever he has in store for you. I saw him shoot a woman in cold blood."

"Look," Angela said as they stopped down the hall, looking down at Pamela, who was shorter than her, "there's something you need to know."

"What would that be?"

"John was the one who tried to murder me. Apparently he is taking after March, and has been having these psychotic episodes, and—"

" _John_?" Pamela interrupted with disbelief. " _What_?! How the hell did I _not_ see this coming?!"

"Yeah, how could you not?" Angela asked. "You worked with him!"

"Oh my god," she said, shaking her head.

To verify Angela's words as true, she held out her palms toward her and closed her eyes, allowing her psychic vision to see the image of John's face, a psychotic normality in his straight face, and hear him speaking as well.

" _Thou shalt not kill. Admit what you've done, and I'll show you mercy."_

"AH!"

Pamela let out a shriek of fear as soon as she took her hands away. Shaking her head with abandon and disbelief, she looked at her straight in the eyes and took Angela's pale and cold forearm, pulling her onto the elevator just a ways away from where they were and pushing the button before it met the seventh floor level. Stepping in, Pamela's speechlessness expired when she let out a rather chilling vow.

"I'm going to kill that son of a bitch," she grunted.

"Good luck with that," Angela said.

"I'm dead," Pamela reminded her. "I can get away with it. I also was in the Army."

"Y-You were?" Angela asked as the elevator went down to the first floor, letting out a ding-sound as soon as it reached that level. They alighted from the elevator and walked down the mini steps leading to the lobby.

"Yes…my background may shock you, but just listen, will you?" the police psychic requested as they stopped in front of the receptionist's desk.

"Okay."

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **Okay, LET'S BE HONEST here; who laughed when Mr. March said "splendid!" in this chapter? I nearly peed hearing him say it like that in the actual series.**

 **Also, does anyone still ship Donovan x Angela, or are there James x Angela shippers out there? Be honest!**

 **Leave a Review, and kindly Favorite and Follow! Also, if you're really loving this story, Share it with your friends!**

 **Stay tuned for the next chapter, which is Pamela-oriented!**


	19. Chapter 18

**Note:** _This chapter is written in_ _ **first-person**_ _point of view, as it is_ _ **Pamela**_ _speaking._

* * *

 _ **~ chapter eighteen ~**_

Yes, I was in the Army, but I led a pretty average life before that. Nothing special, I'd say, but also nothing short of its share of troubles and setbacks.

I was born and raised in Princess Anne, Maryland. All I can tell you, from living there a good chunk of my life, is that it was a town of just under two-thousand and white Caucasian were a minority compared to blacks. In fact, my family was the only one of two white families living on our street.

My father was a Methodist minister and my mother was a legal secretary. I also had a little brother named Donald, who was born when I was seven years old. My father disapproved of my mom having a job and actually doing something outside the home, but I admired her because she was strong enough not to give a shit. She held her job at the local law firm for years, and we were neighbors with her boss.

My psychic powers didn't truly come to life until I was ten years old. My little brother had died of childhood cancer at the age of only three, and I was going to turn ten that November. It really took a toll on my mother, especially since his death could have easily been avoided had he been given medical attention.

He had gotten treatments to begin with, but we weren't seeing any progress—so my father thought he was smart by turning to God and the prayers of our church. Dumbass.

I remember the day he died. I had spent hours afterschool crying my eyes out while my parents fought downstairs. I remember it like it was yesterday.

"I can't _believe_ you, Charles!" she scolded. "I can't believe you let our boy _die_ like that!"

"It was not my will, but God's will! You know that, Lauren!" he shouted.

I heard glass breaking, but when I peeked into the kitchen, I saw my father, a man of six-foot-four, grab my mother's arm and seethe in her face like a jackal.

"We can still try for more!" he gritted through his teeth.

"Get off me! I hate you! I HATE YOU!" my mother yelled through tears. "I want to divorce!"

"You think THAT will change things, Lauren? Do you think _that_ will bring our boy back?!" I heard him argue. "Do you think _that_ will help you in this town, Lauren? Having people know that you _divorced_ your husband because you were _mourning_ for your _boy_? Think straight, Lauren! Don't be so stupid!"

And then that's when I saw her crawl into my dad's arms like the weakling she was. She really was a weak-willed woman. At the same time, my dad just held her and they cried together.

But the minute I look on the other side of the doorway, I see a figure of what looks to be my three year-old brother Donald crawling over to me. I remember how cute he was, but I knew it was just his spirit. He had died that day. I had experienced psychic phenomena other times as a kid, but as I said, it was when I was ten that I really felt like they were starting to develop.

"Donald?" I had asked, a look of shock in my face. "I-Is that you?"

"Sissy," I heard him coo. "Tell mommy n' daddy no fight anymore."

"T-They're not." I had paused and looked into the kitchen through the doorway. "They're just hugging. Mom is sad."

"I don't want her be sad," Donald's spirit told me. "I want her smile."

"Donald," I began, looking down at him eye-level; he was such a cute toddler. "Do you see God? Dad always talked about him when you were alive, remember? Donald?"

There was no answer, but it chilled my spine to hear him say to me, "there no God. I just here. I happy. I am all better now."

The next time I took a peek into the kitchen, I looked back to where he was only to see that he had disappeared from my sight. I have not seen my little brother's spirit since.

I also never told my mother or my father about what I had experienced as a kid—premonitions, dreams of the future, and stuff like seeing my brother that one time after he died. I would not only be called crazy, but my father would have beaten me, probably. Men of the cloth are so dumb. He'd think I was possessed.

Sundays were always filled with church services, watching my dad give sermons and preach verbatim from the Bible, but then there was always Sunday school in the afternoons after church service. My church often used the hours of noon to three for adults to socialize over bagels, donuts and orange juice in the multipurpose room in the lower level of the church. However, those three hours were hell for us kids, but moreso for me because even after the hour and a half Bible study, I still needed to be there because my father was a minister, of course, so he did extended sermons.

So take what I just told you, and there you have it—an entire day spent at church. How exciting.

All we were allowed to listen to in my house was gospel, both contemporary and older songs. Artists like Whitney Houston, Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwick and Aretha Franklin were in our "approved" criteria of music artists.

But I remember when I became hooked to the Carpenters. I didn't even grow up in the 1970s, but I might as well have. My mother loved them when she was a teenager, and had them hidden beneath her bed. When I was, I think thirteen, she sent me upstairs to grab her knitting for her, and when I was getting it, I looked under the bed to see a tan album sleeve with the group's name written in that crazy retro font.

"Pamela? Where's my knitting?" I heard her call to me as I grabbed the album.

"Uh…j-just a minute!" I called back. "I got it!"

I took that album and the other two from under the bed and snuck them across the hall to my room. I didn't play them until I decided to play sick on a Sunday. That was the only time I could play the records, other times being when they weren't home for some reason or another. I had a vinyl player in my room and the first lyrics I heard, I was hooked.

" _When I was young,_

 _I'd listen to the radio,_

 _Waiting for my favorite songs…"_

Karen spoke to me—she was an angel. She died in 1983, I later learned. I was upset. Richard's compositions were like silken threads, every lyric meticulously crafted to perfection. I even began to dress like Karen, adopting my bohemian style that I had grown to love.

I continued with this style of dress despite my father's protest. My mother was actually pretty happy I discovered her secret record collection. I mean, I don't understand why how I dressed was so bad because a lot of the clothing of the 1970s was pretty modest, actually. Peasant blouses were always a favorite of mine, even though my father claimed he could see right through them.

"Didn't I raise you Christian enough to have common decency in your clothing choices?" he'd ask me.

"Dad, stop," I replied often. "This is modest. Don't worry. Do you see any skin showing?"

"That pattern brings too much attention to you," he told me. "No better than wearing red."

"Uh…" I remember wearing a white peasant-like dress with a stretchy waistline and a floral pattern; it was at the breakfast table that morning before school. "There _is_ some red in this dress."

"It does look lovely," my mother cut in with a smile.

"Don't encourage her," my dad snapped.

"C'mon, dad," I said laxly. "Tell me there wasn't a time _you_ had freedom before becoming a minister?"

"I spent time with my youth group, being a good Christian," he replied, taking a bite of his sunny-side up eggs.

"That's because your parents put you there," I replied; that moment, I regretted being a smartass.

"Pamela Sarah Nurse!" he exclaimed, dropping his fork. "Don't you dare speak to me with that tone again!"

I raised my eyebrows and blinked a few times. Thank god I didn't have to deal with him after I was sixteen.

He had died in sleep suddenly of a heart attack. I knew it was a heart attack—the coroner was inconclusive in finding his cause of death. My father was a clean man. He was a true holy-roller; no drinking, no smoking…I don't even know how he managed to get a heart attack.

I barely shed a tear; in fact, I was happy for my mom, who only shed half more tears than I did simply because she had to and he was her husband. I could sense the newfound freedom and happiness she had gotten once he died because he was such a controlling pain in the ass.

I didn't have to hide my obsession with the Carpenters anymore—I played it everyday to my heart's content afterschool. My mother had freely given me the albums.

However, I regretted telling her about my psychic talents, and how that one time, I saw the spirit of my brother the day he died.

"No, no," she denied. "You must have had too much sugar, sweetheart. Donald is…in heaven. He is happy."

"Uh, I saw him, mom," I recalled. "I remember it clear as day. He told me to tell you guys to stop fighting but you probably wouldn't have listened."

"You're crazy, Pamela," she told me.

From that point forth, I got angry whenever she said that. So in order to prove that I was genuinely psychic, I told her different things in the morning or evening that I saw would be in her day or in her dreams at night.

"The boss isn't too happy today. He woke on the wrong side of his cave. I wouldn't be surprised he pours his coffee on his lap."

Sure enough, she came home that afternoon and told me pretty much what I had predicted, although it was actually moreso similar; "he was brutal today. He got coffee all over his brand new suit and took it out on me whenever I tried to ask a question."

I was vegging on the couch with a magazine—"I know. I told you."

"Look, sweetheart, I know you think it's cool and hip to predict the future, but none of that exists," she explained to me, thinking I would buy it. "You know this."

"No, _you_ don't know, mom."

So I predicted a thing per day for three months straight—well, until she got tired of it.

And me.

So she sent me away.

I was taken to an elite boarding school in New Orleans. Miss Robicheaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies. I was told it was a finishing school for special girls. Boy, was I wrong.

Cordelia Foxx, the headmistress of the academy, said I was a witch.

I laughed.

Well, that was until I saw a girl demonstrate telekinesis during a class we had. I thought I was actually crazy and seeing things.

Boy, was I wrong there, too.

In the academy, there were only five girls other than me who were there to learn new skills, hone their existing ones, and control whatever they had going for them. There were seven main 'powers' (I use that term loosely because it's ridiculous).

Telekinesis, I just mentioned. That should be self-explanatory. Don't know? Look it up. I was never good at this. In fact, I never had this.

Pyrokinesis, that's the same as telekinesis just with fire. Also, I never had this one, either.

Descensum, which was a descent of the soul into the otherworld. I never succeeded at this, even though I meditated a lot as a teenager.

Vitalum Vitalis, or resurrecting a dead person—I not only sucked at this, but I never attempted because of my religious background and how my father told me about the Biblical story of the Witch of Endor, who did this kind of thing apparently.

Transmutation, kinda like teleporting. Nope. Never was good at this either.

Concilium, which was basically coercion or mind-control. Now, this was something I succeeded at a few times, but it never really got anywhere. I don't think I used it much. I was convincing on my own.

But there was the last skill that I did not mention—divination.

I was really good at divination. Like, really good.

Then Cordelia somehow assessed that I was not only good at this, but I had clairvoyance and something called 'The Sight'. Like I could touch something and know exactly where it came from or who it belonged to. I used that here. I saw how some of these people died in the hotel using that. She said it's rare if you're not blind. I didn't know what she meant by that, but…okay! One things for sure, she wasn't lying when she told me it's the most powerful of powers but the most difficult to live with. Actually, scratch that. To an extent, it was hard to live with because people called me crazy if they truly knew that part of me, but to me it was an everyday thing.

I was at the academy for a year and half. Why hadn't they kicked me out sooner? I was useless in all other areas except divination and that other shit. They did, eventually, because I never improved.

With no place to go, I signed up for early recruitment into the US Army.

In 2005, I was seventeen, but also eligible for this opportunity—so I went to the Army recruiter in the city of New Orleans and they put me into training. I had a place to stay until it started. It was a group home. All my needs were provided for. Then my boot camp started, and it was tiring.

You'd ask yourself right now, how a hippy chic like me joined the Army? Well, I had no choice. No place to stay, and I couldn't go back home. I had to do something. But do I regret it? Not at all.

I served for four years, and I was stationed in Iraq toward the end of my tenure. I never actually saw combat, but I was really good at strategizing for the ones fighting.

One such man was the love of my life—Samuel Klein.

He had been serving for six years, and his time in the Army ended just when mine did when I was 21. He was really handsome, hailing from Virginia. I can remember being smitten with him from day one—he was built, and I mean built with these huge shoulders even though he was shorter than average at five-foot-eight. I'm five-foot-two, so that wasn't too bad. He had these dark, smoldering eyes the color of chocolate, and his hair was a light brown with his skin a healthy tan color. Oh my god…wow.

We often communicated with each other because we were in the same platoon. I really could tell he liked me. By that point, I had never kissed anyone in my entire life, my upbringing being part of the reason. My father would've killed me, but it wasn't like many boys at school would be caught dead with a hippy chic like me. One night, we had been camping in the desert somewhere, and he kissed me. I remember my heart fluttering like a butterfly.

We got married the year after we both were released from our service. He happened to also be a Methodist, and we got married in my hometown church. I remember my dress, pleated white tulle gathered at the waist and with a high neckline and flowy sleeves. A very 70s kind of vibe to it.

We spent three years in wedded bliss, but…he wanted kids. That was the problem. I didn't want them, ever. I don't know if the loss of my little brother had something to do with it, but I just did not want kids. It became the subject of most of our arguments—it ended in divorce. That was two years ago.

After that, I decided to put my abilities to use by becoming a phone psychic, where I reached a big clientele the minute I moved to Los Angeles. Literally. I barely got a day off because of it. I made my living, though. But there was still the need to help people, so I joined the LAPD two months ago, but before that I underwent police academy training. It wasn't hard considering I had a background in the Army, and the minute I located a dead body, a victim of a murder that had taken place, the police department made me their police psychic.

So you see, Angela, I didn't think John was an evil fucker to begin with. I didn't see this coming, and for that, I'm shocked. But he won't see it coming when I kill him for what he's done to these innocent people.

* * *

 ** _a/n_**

 **So now you guys know more about Pamela and her past! Having two first-person chapters in one story is a first for me, so** _*clap clap clap*_

 **SHOUTOUT** to anyone who can answer this correctly: If Pamela is a Salem descendent, which famous figure is she descended from? Hint: her maiden name is a clue!

 **Please leave a Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow! Thanks to all who have done so, it's very encouraging!**


	20. Chapter 19

**_SHOUTOUT_** _goes to_ AngelofPerformance21 _for correctly guessing that Pamela is a Salem descendent, descended from Rebecca Nurse. She was an accused witch hung during the trials, and she was elderly at the time (aged 70-72). Way to go!_

* * *

"Are you sure you have no qualms about killing him?" Angela asked nervously after hearing about her past.

"Not at all. Hell, you'd think me being raised Methodist, I'd follow the rules," Pamela said, "but I can't. How could I possibly after what he did?"

"I would kill him, but…" The brunette paused, "I can't bring myself to do it ever again." There was silence when she paused. "But…where is Donovan and Iris and—"

"Oh, shit," the police psychic scoffed. "They're looking for you."

"Then let's go meet them halfway," the brunette young woman said.

"Why?" Pamela asked, using her psychic powers to sense where they were. "They're coming…they're on the elevator."

 _DING!_

The doors opened, and sure enough, all three afflicted beings came off in order, Donovan first with his mother and Ramona behind him. The man seemed to rush toward Angela, hugging her in his arms for dear life as he almost got emotional.

"Dono—"

"Damn it," he grunted, gripping the bottom of her dark curls. "Don't _ever_ do that again!"

"Don't worry, guys," Pamela said, beginning to explain the situation. "She's okay. She was saved."

"Did you save her?" Iris asked.

"No."

"Then who?"

Angela cut in, making Donovan let her go in the process; "March did."

Everyone's eyes widened, but Iris made her response fairly quickly; " _James_ March?"

"Yeah."

"What did he say?"

"H-He saved me…and I'm alive," Angela said. "T-That's all that matters."

"It's good to know you've come to your senses, girlie," the older afflicted woman said with a sigh of relief. "So…want Liz to get you a bit of hair of the dog to make you feel better?"

"Uh…what?"

"A drink, Angela," Liz said, leading them up the staircase to the second-floor bar he worked at.

As they all went up the steps, Donovan looked back every so often at Angela, who still was lacking pants and had the oversized shirt opened at the top. She was beautiful as a mortal, but now she was afflicted, and her beauty only multiplied—her azure, feline-like eyes had a spark of vitality in them, and her pale skin was smooth like marble. She did not look back at him until they reached the top of the stairs, where they reserved their seats at the bar. Liz went behind the counter, and looked to the entire crew of afflicted beings sitting in a row—Iris, Donovan, Angela, and Ramona all there in a succession as he got out four wine glasses and filled it with a strange red liquid that Angela could only describe as familiar.

"Wait, where is Pamela?" the transvestite asked after pouring drinks.

"Must've disappeared," Iris said as she rolled her eyes and was given her glass.

"Yup, they all do that when it suits them," the transvestite replied tiredly, giving Donovan, Ramona and Angela their glasses—the newly afflicted, however, looked down at it.

"Uh…"

"It's got a drop of triple sec," Liz said. "Try it. It's from the Countess' personal stash."

"I-Is this blood?" the brunette asked.

"Yes. You need it," Liz answered, "because you'll die without it."

"It's not bad," Iris said. "I remember trying it. I liked it. It gave me my taste for blood. Go on…"

Angela shrugged and took the silver-plated rim of the glass to her lips, starting to drink the iron-like, but saccharine-sweet beverage that was given to her. Just after taking the first sip, she took the entire glass and began to chug the remaining amount without stopping, feeling it flow down her throat like a refreshing drink of water. Donovan and Iris just stared, watching a bit of the bloody cocktail drip down the side of her pale mouth as she finished off the rest. Putting the glass down, she looked at everyone there and nodded, especially looking at Liz.

"Can I please have more?" she asked.

"Uh…" Liz picked up the decanter holding the Countess' luxury beverage, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news but…you had the last bit."

She raised her eyebrows with shock and surprise—"oh."

"But don't worry. I'll be making some more pretty soon," Liz said. "She'll wonder where it all went. I'm not telling her who I served it to. She'd cut my throat."

"This cocktail is going to hold you over for a couple hours, but after that you'll need to feed again," Iris said. "Fresh, living blood."

"But…c-can't I get it from an animal instead?" Angela asked with hesitation.

"That only can do so much," her employer said. "Human blood is how we roll, usually."

"You can't drink from people who are sick or dead," Donovan explained as he sipped his cocktail to the halfway mark, "or drunk or drugged out. You'll be able to tell fresh from bad blood overtime. Dead people taste disgusting. I mean, I can drink from junkies, but that's because I was a junkie before I died and become this."

"Does it make you sick?" Angela asked.

"No, we have supercharged immune systems," he answered. "It probably would make _you_ sick though, if you never did any drugs. Drinking bad blood is like a stomach bug, but it goes away in three days. I had it once."

"What about sexual diseases?" Angela questioned.

"Nope. You can't get those."

"What if they have diseases in their blood?"

"You can make the choice to stick with drinking from strictly healthy people," Donovan explained, "or, if you're desperate, you can drink from someone who has, say, AIDS, and you won't get it. Your immune system can attack it before it attacks you."

Angela listened—"go on, please. Is there anything else I should do if I'm going to…uh, live like this?"

"Cover up a bit more when you go out," Donovan added. "The sunlight won't kill you, but it will make you exhausted."

"May I add," Ramona cut in, "you are only immortal if you're smart. You could still die of a slit throat and a gunshot."

"Silver stakes, too?" Angela questioned in a rather stressed fashion. "Garlic?"

"Not garlic, sugar," the former actress chuckled as she took the last sip of her cocktail. "It's nothing like the movies. We don't have teeth, we cut our victim's throats and drink from them."

"Remember the day with those nasty hipsters," Iris said. "I took it a step further and slit the guy's throat. You feel a rush when you drink blood from a fresh body."

"I could take you to a club. Ramona could come, too, and you, too, ma," Donovan said. "Many fresh bodies at a club. Warm, too. It's always hot in one."

"But there are always drunks and people on party pills," Angela contradicted.

"Not all of them."

"I can't go," Iris scoffed. "I'm too old for clubbing."

"I didn't expect you to. I only invited you for the hunt," Donovan said rather rudely, turning his attention to the newly-turned brunette with thick waves. "So Angela, say you'll join me. Will it be Friday or Saturday?"

 _Mr. March's dinner is Friday_ , she recalled, taking into account the day they were to feast together. "Saturday."

"Good."

* * *

The week leading up to Friday evening's dinner with James March and the Saturday night clubbing with Donovan and Ramona for her first kill was eventful. Angela had finally consented to have her belongings moved to the spare room in Liz's suite, where they both lived peacefully and paid a collective rent of their wages made at the hotel. She was happy to have all her own clothes back, but taking Donovan's advice, she made sure to cover up a bit more by wearing dark clothing that hid her skin from the sun in the event she encountered any light.

Tuesday during the day, she had the chance to meet with Will and do a fitting for the black dress design he created for her, but the Countess had not been there to greet her and socialize with her. _Thank god_ , were her thoughts, _she would've noticed off the bat that I was turned._

By Thursday night, she was an official resident of the Hotel Cortez, and Friday afternoon was when she found an outfit laid out on her bed for her. She had been on break and went to her and Liz's room for the half hour.

"Did you lay this out for me?" she asked upon seeing a peculiar-looking outfit that was heavily sequined and a shade of dark red.

"No," Liz responded with a cup of champagne in his hand. "I did not, actually. It's beautiful. Whoever sent it has great taste."

"Thanks, I…guess," Angela said nervously.

"What's the occasion?"

"Well," the brunette replied, "when Mr. March saved me, he invited me to dine with him on the seventh floor room of his. He kind of twisted my arm to go, but…yeah."

"Be careful. He is a difficult man," Liz advised.

"I know." She paused. "That's why I agreed."

"Try to eat something cooked rare with blood in it," he advised with a smile.

"Okay. I figured."

That night, she had gotten ready, and seeing how perfect her skin was, she threw away her bottle of foundation and her concealer stick which were crucial staples in her makeup case. She stuck with a bare minimum of light brown and gold eyeshadow, lengthening mascara, and bold red lipstick, which was the one defining feature of her look to meet Mr. March for dinner. The dress she was given was way more than blood red silk, but had a dropped waist line reminiscent of the flappers of the early-20th century. The heavy sequins were onyx black in color and in floral paisley designs in the long bodice, and there was black tulle on the skirt part. She did not like it, due to the style, nor did she know where it came from.

So when she went to the seventh floor, she located his door and knocked gingerly only to be greeted by him, wearing a light gray pinstripe suit with a black dress shirt buttoned neatly beneath his blazer. His soulless black eyes stared at her, sinisterly lighting up upon seeing her.

"Miss Saxon, welcome!" he said, gesturing inward toward the table set up in the room. "Do come in."

She stepped into the room, smiling nervously as she could feel his eyes boring into her backside, analyzing every feature on her.

"I can see you are wearing the ensemble I personally had selected for you," he said proudly.

"Uh… _you_ picked this?" she asked It's hideous, she thought.

"Yes, indeed I did," he smiled, pulling out a chair for her at one far end of the table. "Red seems so suitable for you. The dress also fits astoundingly well."

 _If only the waistline was higher_ , she thought to herself as she sat in the chair he pulled out for her.

"Would you like an Armagnac?" he offered, holding the flask of liquor and preparing a glass. "I also will be having one."

"What's that?"

He began to pour two glasses, one for him and another for his afflicted guest, smirking as the liquid made its way past the rim each time. "It's brandy, my dear. Imported from the south of France. It gets better with age, like a fine wine."

He handed her a glass, and she took a sip to avoid looking like she was being rude; it was rather strong, but sweet. "Mm, this is good."

"I'm glad it pleases you, Miss Saxon. I'd have gotten wine, but it seems we've run short of it," March said, taking a seat and lighting a cigarette that had been attached to a short holder.

"I see."

"We will be having rare-cooked steaks and vegetables for our meal tonight," he smiled, his eyes giving her such a feeling inside that she almost melted.

"Uh…I can't help but notice," she said, straightening her back. "Y-You have a way with words."

"Ah, yes," March smiled, taking a sip of his Armagnac. "I had a marvelous professor at Exeter. I freely admit that I mimicked his Brahman diction until I made it my own. As for my clothing and choice of decor, the modern world is an awfully uncomfortable place, don't you think?"

"Well…no disrespect meant but…how do you know of the modern world if you've spent a lot of time trapped in these walls, Mr. March?" Angela questioned, taking a sip of her liquor while staring at her host beyond the flame of one of the white tapers illuminating the table.

"Why, through Elizabeth, of course."

"Your wife?"

" _Ex_ -wife," he corrected. "She and I only meet like this to dine once per month. She is far too busy for anything else."

"Why's that?" Angela questioned.

"Because, Miss Saxon," March explained, preparing his cloth napkin for the serving of their meal by Miss Evers, his faithful minion and maid, "she never claimed to love me. I had given her the world as she knew it. She would not be in her standing if it weren't for me."

"That's terrible," Angela said without expression as she moved a curl away from her face. "I'm sorry."

"I had given her the world," he repeated. "I thought I could make her love me. I thought if I gave her everything her little heart desired, she would love me. I bestowed upon her riches, comfort at this hotel, the latest fashions, jewelry made from precious gems mined from abroad…" His voice was depressingly vehement, "but none of it moved her. None of it…" Angela winced silently as he began to yell in a tone so sharp she felt it cut her ears to the point of bleeding. "I could NEVER compete with the shadow of a GOD on a screen, twenty feet tall!"

Angela looked down at her empty plate, still not having been served her rare-cooked steak as promised; "so…what did happen?"

"Rudolph Valentino, that's what happened." He paused and took a breath, interrupted by the presence of Miss Evers bringing in the tray with their plates and their appetizer-sized side salads; Angela's mouth started to water, smelling the cow blood in the perfect cut of steak and getting immediately hungry by it. "Ah, Miss Evers!"

"I apologize for it being late, sir," she said, looking at Angela to smile and compliment her. "What a beautiful dress."

"Thank you," she answered shyly as the woman exited the scene with a bow to Angela.

"Could not have come at a more perfect time," he said, sipping his brandy and cutting into his steak. "Rudolph Valentino was Elizabeth's first love. He was an Italian actor, a very famous figure of the silent screen. He made such films as _Beyond the Rocks_ and _The Son of the Sheik_ , which was his final production. It became known at a party one evening, which I was hosting here in the Hotel Cortez, that Valentino had died."

Angela took a big bite of the steak, tasting the iron-rich blood as she paid attention to his words.

"They say he died of a stunt accident. I met Elizabeth during that party. She looked quite different than she does now, in fact."

"How?"

"Her hair," March described, "was a light chestnut brown. It was beautiful. Bobbed and curled with every strand in place." He paused. "I saved her from suicide. She had attempted to jump to her death that night from the same window I caught _you_ in, Miss Saxon."

Her eyes widened. She nearly shook her head with disbelief at hearing how similar the situations were. Elizabeth tried to kill herself because of her love for Valentino and the desire to join him in death; Angela attempted suicide because of her newfound life state as an afflicted.

"I…can't believe it," she said silently.

"She married me soon after that," March recalled. "We had a private ceremony in the lobby of the hotel."

"What happened after?" Angela asked curiously.

"She inspired me to kill more," March said, taking a bite of his vegetables. "She encouraged everything I had ever done. I can recall having taken the life of some bloody hobo who had been desperate for work, living on the streets. I hired him, but then I took his last breath. I dismembered him, and Elizabeth told me to instead kill wealthy people, people with possessions. Jewels and money, to name a few of the things she wanted, because she most desired that my brutality benefit the both of us. I liked her way of thinking, so I followed through."

Angela looked at her drink, having eaten a big chunk of her steak, fat and gristle included, and barely any of her vegetables or side salad. She sipped her beverage and cleared her throat.

"W-What ended things?" she questioned finally.

"Valentino did."

"But…he died, right?"

"Wrong. I was wrong, at least," he explained. "I had followed Elizabeth to a mortuary. I had been suspicious of her whereabouts for a year. I found out she had left a rose in the holder of his tomb everyday for the entire year. That day I followed her, I saw her reunited with not only Natacha Rambova, his wife, but Valentino himself."

"H-He was afflicted?" she questioned.

"Indeed," he continued. "They proposed that they turn her, and that she would venture off to Europe with them. I made it impossible for them to steal my Elizabeth away. I was furious. I hired my best men to attack them, and I burned all three train tickets to prevent them from leaving. I realized they had turned Elizabeth before they even left."

"W-What happened to Valentino and his wife?" Angela questioned. "Did you off them?"

"No," March replied. "I kept them prisoner."

"Where?"

"In the walls of the palace," he said cryptically, "I built for my queen."

"Wait…" she said, shaking her head. "I'm confused. Are they still there?"

" _Here_ , you mean?"

Angela's eyes widened—"yeah?"

He smirked sinisterly, chuckling evilly; "not anymore."

"Does Elizabeth know?" Angela asked. "I'm sure she'd be upset with you."

"I'm dead," he said, sipping his Armagnac. "I am immune to her savagery. She is aware. I told her during our monthly dinner last week. I am certain she will be reunited with them again."

"Do you think maybe she will be happy for once?"

"Indeed I do, dear," March replied with a sly sip of his brandy. "Indeed I do."

* * *

The following night, Saturday, Angela was sure to dress in her most alluring clubwear in order to attract her first kill as an afflicted. Donovan dressed casually with a pair of black slacks and a white button-up, but Angela tried to get something eye-catching from her personal wardrobe that was enough to compliment the pallor of her undead skin.

She managed to find a black slip-style dress made of smooth silk that she had not worn since a photoshoot at work two years before. She also wore black nylon hose with a pair of plain black pumps. Aside from light casual eyeshadow and bright red lips, she donned a silver butterfly pendant on a chain that rested on the side of her chest. Her dark brown, almost black, waves were neatly brushed and in place before leaving Liz's room with his well-wishes and best of luck sentiments.

Ramona had decided last minute not to go, instead contributing to the aftermath with the disposal of the bodies. She had said to Angela: "be covered in blood, and I'll know you done did it."

So it was just Donovan and her, getting into a taxi and heading for a club in downtown Los Angeles called The Vault. As soon as they made their way past the thick-boned bouncers guarding the doors, Angela's eyes were immediately caught by the red, hot pink, and blue strobe lights flashing and tracing along the walls and crowd on the dance floor as a remix of Martin Garrix's _Virus_ blasted so loudly it was deafening. Donovan was sure to keep watch of Angela, seeing several average-looking guys surrounded by girls stare in her direction—giving a glare per set of wayward eyes was enough to scare them back to their business.

They finally sat at the bar, where a scrawny man with an obvious drug problem, given the tick marks in his forearm, was wiping the inside of a martini glass and immediately looked at Donovan, who ordered a drink.

"Scotch on the rocks," he requested, looking at Angela with a smirk. "Wait, make it two."

As they sat, they were served their drinks within seconds and Angela took a sip, feeling her friend's eyes on her and knowing full well that he wanted to talk to her. She put her glass on top of the napkin provided and looked to him.

"He's not a healthy one," he said, referring to the heroin-addict bartender. "Not for you, anyways. Leave him to me. I haven't gotten it from an addict in a while, not since before my ma was turned."

"I say you stick with someone healthy and call it a night," Angela advised, taking a big gulp of her scotch with a bit of the ice hitting the tip of her icy, pale nose. Donovan scowled slowly at her and shook his head.

"Who I feed on is none of your business," he snapped.

"Dono," she cut in, looking straight into his eyes with active intent in every word she went on to say: "I would say the same to you, but then again, I'm not the one setting an example for a newly, uh, _turned_."

Before she knew it, his hard, intense, dagger-like gaze stopped directing at her because he focused on his pocket, pulling out something and holding it out for her to take into her own hand.

"Go for the throat," he whispered in her ear, hinting at what it was he gave to her—a folded, sharpened pocket knife with a knife big enough to cut with a single swipe. "I'll catch up with you later in the alley."

"What if we get caught?" Angela asked.

"No." Donovan shook his head. "We don't get caught. Now go."

When he turned his back to her, Angela got up off the stool and finished the last swig of her scotch, her eyes scanning the vicinity as the loud music began to beat its bass loudly. An amalgam of women and men of all colors, sizes and shapes crowded the dance floor; that being said, the first thing that hit her nose was the overwhelming stench of body odor and the unwitting transfer of pheromones in the air while the first thing that caught her eye was a man.

 _He's looking back at me_ , she thought.

Indeed he was. And handsome, too.

Angela could just see the pulsing of the major arteries in his rather long, slender neck, seen at the front of his throat. The fresh blood incited her to look at him more, taking in his every detail. He was rather tall and thin-built, wearing a denim jacket with denim jeans and a gray Henley t-shirt beneath. He also happened to be wearing a gold crucifix pendant, but that wasn't all—his eyes were a deep cerulean, and his hair was a rich chocolate color akin to Angela's shade. His physical attractiveness was enough to give her second thoughts about making him her prey, but at the same time, she knew she would lure many like this to their deaths.

With the lights strobing back and forth on her, she kept the eye contact and made her way over to him like a wild cat on the prowl, lengthening her legs each time with every step in such a way that it was alluring to him. When they finally were face to face, the young man smiled down at Angela and looked her up and down.

"You are cute," he drawled. "What's your name?"

"Tell me yours first," she said, a bold move on her part.

"I'm Jay," he smiled.

"Angela."

"Fitting name," he complimented. "Like an angel." Then he laughed.

"I'm no angel," she giggled with a humanly blush. "Believe me."

The two shared an even exchange of a smile and looking down at their shoes shyly.

"Uh…w-wanna dance, uh…Angela? Is that your name?"

"Sure."

The two began to get down and boogie to the continuation of the _Virus_ remix until it faded into the Cedric Gervais remix of Lana Del Ray's _Summertime Sadness_ , a techno beat dropping as soon as the chorus began. Every few minutes, she found herself looking at the bar to see Donovan watching her carefully, but a woman had been sitting with him and clearly intrigued by his penetrating gaze. The minute the song changed to Lady Gaga's _G.U.Y_ , Angela led her proposed prey over to the bar to meet up with the man who transformed her into the bloodsucking creature and his own prey, a blonde bimbo-like woman with a black dress that went way too far up her backside.

"Well, sis," Donovan said, putting on a show. "Look who you've found."

Angela caught on with the act and played along—"this is Jay."

"Yup, that's me."

"Gonna buy us drinks?" the blonde prey of Donovan asked.

"I…uh…c-can't afford it," he said.

"You came empty-handed?" Angela asked pretentiously.

"It's okay. I'll get a round for all three of us," Donovan offered. "Scotch on the rocks."

"Uh, no…" Jay protested. "I'll just have water."

"You're _healthy_ ," Donovan sneered, craving his blood now just as much as Angela.

"I took up a vegan diet a while ago," Jay responded as the four moved from the bar to a quieter booth in the back room; the sound of the heavy bass of the sexually-charged music continued to bang through the walls as they all sat down and were served their drinks by a waitress on staff serving appetizers to them as well. Angela took a chip and dipped it in the French-onion sauce provided, but nearly vomited right then and there.

 _Guess no more snack foods_ , she thought, taking a napkin to her face to spit out the chewed-up, sogging-with-saliva chip in.

So the socializing began—the blonde's name was Amber, and she had revealed she was originally from San Francisco and doing amateur adult films to pay off her college debts, having graduated the year before. Angela and Donovan were vague in their descriptions other than feigning they were brother and sister. Jay, however, revealed something shocking to the table.

"So, I got a confession to make," he began. "I feel bad and guilty sitting here."

"What?" Angela asked.

"I…am actually…uh, underage," Jay revealed.

"So?"

"That's why I turned down the scotch," he replied.

"How old are you, then?" Angela asked. "I was smoking at ten and doing other things by thirteen."

"Seventeen," Jay said. "But I like older women. You said you were twenty-four."

 _I feel terrible_ , Angela thought, _I'm so ashamed. He's only a kid. Should I really kill him to satisfy my hunger for blood?_

"Are you here with anyone?" Donovan asked.

"Well, my friend. He's twenty-three and getting shit-faced at the bar. He brought me," Jay explained.

"Want to come back to our place for a bit of our own party?" Donovan asked—Angela was shocked about how outright he was.

"I'm down," Amber smiled.

"Sure. I don't think my friend will really notice," Jay said.

"Are you _sure_ , Dono?" Angela cut in, feeling terrible that she had her sights set on slashing the throat of a seventeen-year old.

"Live a little, sis!" he joked.

But Angela knew exactly what was going on as they all stood up, Donovan paid the check in the book given to them at the table, and made their way out of the back entrance of the club, stepping into a wide but very dim alleyway in the process. Jay looked at Angela, who smiled back at him, and Amber was under Donovan's arm as he pulled out his phone to make it look like he was doing something—in reality, he had been texting Ramona so she could come with her car and the supplies needed to dispose of the bodies after they were drained dry of their blood.

"Our ride should be coming," he feigned. "Sis, you got everything?"

"Uh, yeah," Angela said, playing along with the charade. "Do you?"

That was the moment he gave Angela the signal, a facial expression that screamed 'I'm hungry'. It caught Jay's attention first when Amber let out a scream of agony in the tight grasp of Donovan.

"AHH—"

 _Slice!_

He nearly screamed at the sight, but Angela made sure to distract him as Donovan feasted mercilessly on the blood of his prey, drinking every drop until it stopped spurting from the wound in her neck. Jay, who was speechless, was met with the crying brunette as she took out the knife Donovan had given her.

"I…I'm sorry," she sobbed, raising the sharp pocket knife and stabbing it into his neck with enough force to send a geyser of blood flying from the wound and into her open mouth.

"AHHhhh…."

His scream weakened, and as he fell to the darkened asphalt, she got on her knees and put her mouth to the wound she had afflicted in his neck, tasting the iron-rich, oxygen-filled sanguine fluid as it dripped into her mouth and down her neck and collarbone. Her black slip dress was drenched in blood, and her lips collected every drop like a juicy peach until there was no blood left in the young man's body.

When she took her face away from the man's throat, she could see Donovan looking down at her with Ramona, whose car was parked behind her. She had a grin on her face that was the most sadistic she had ever seen.

"Are you done, sugar?" she giggled.

"Uh…oh," Angela said, dropping the top of Jay's corpse onto the asphalt. "Yeah."

"Hurry up," she ordered. "Let's get these two in the trunk. We'll dump them."

* * *

The bodies of Jay and Amber were taken back into the hotel discreetly through the back and dumped down the chutes that were built within the walls. They were taken to the second floor, where a small dumping room, as it was called, was located to make this possible. No one had caught them, not even outsiders as they brought out an empty brass luggage cart to carry the bodies on.

Once the dirty work was done, Angela and Donovan immediately went to an empty, unoccupied room on the second floor and got entirely washed up, even going as far as sticking their clothes in the sink to rinse out the deeply-soaked sanguine fluid. Donovan had jumped in the shower first to clean himself off, but when he finished, Angela tried to step in next only to be stopped by his voice.

They were both naked in front of each other, something she never thought would ever happen between them.

She could feel his eyes looking her up and down, still covered in blood from her murder and feeding of Jay, every flawless curve covered in marble, cold, pallid flesh. She felt a bit uncomfortable, but he neared her rather quickly, backing her against a wall.

"Uh…Dono…"

"Angela," he said. "You know, you didn't have to say sorry for killing him to his face."

"He was seventeen," she grunted, "I felt bad."

"Don't ever feel bad. Do you think they feel bad for a Dorito when they eat it?" he questioned.

Angela was extremely uncomfortable naked around him, but nodded as she stared up into his eyes. There seemed to be a spark flying between them, and their eyes just remained hypnotized by each other's gazes as they paid no mind to their nudity but themselves, their soul's windows. When he leaned down to kiss her, she had no control over the fact that she was fully accepting it. His hands rested on her icy, skinny shoulders while his tongue slightly dipped into her mouth. She could taste the iron-like gusto of blood in his mouth, and when he broke the kiss, he looked down at her.

"You know, I never told you," he explained, "that the afflicted aren't supposed to fall in love."

She shook her head, entranced by him—"why not?"

"Because I want you to save that part for me," he smirked.

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **The ship has sailed! Who shipped Angela with Donovan? C'mon, you think I'd disappoint you guys?!**

 **Please leave a Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow!**

 **Thanks guys, and stay tuned!**


	21. Chapter 20

**NOTE:** _Contains adult content. Discretion is advised!_

* * *

 ** _~ chapter twenty ~_**

Angela couldn't believe her ears—she had barely known this man, but felt like she owed everything to him. Being in the alliance against the Countess had given them more time to interact with each other, as well as him accompanying her on her first kill for nourishment in the form of blood. He had even saved her from certain death, a violent one at the hands of the Ten Commandments Killer himself, John, with whom she had relations with way before in order to comfort him. So what was he saying? Did he love her the whole time? She would just soon find out.

"Dono," she said quietly. "Y-You _love_ me? Is that what you mean?"

"I don't know," he replied, "but I do know that if I don't have you right now, I will die."

Angela just looked up at him, raising her eyebrows and listening to every word, knowing full well he likely meant what he was telling her.

"After the Countess left me, I was nobody," he explained impassionedly. "This alliance was formed to kill her and make sure she has the worst downfall possible, but you…Angela, you've been such an addition to this, and you've given me hope. I'm not normally a feelsy guy, but I… _need_ you."

She had no choice, for the moment when he claimed her lips again, he held her so close to him that she could feel his erection poking at her leg. She felt the chill of excitement between them as he backed her away until she lay on the freshly-made bed beneath him. He managed to pin both of her arms down as his tongue danced with hers, the taste of sanguine fluid from their kills still lingering in their mouths, making them each hungry for more. Angela knew she couldn't fight him, not even when he grabbed the base of her throat.

"Shh," he lulled, sticking out his tongue and tracing it along where the blood had dried to her skin from Jay's neck wound.

The sensation of his tongue against her skin was unreal, and as he kept going, he could taste the blood on her form, moving lower as he gripped her neck tighter, dominating her and controlling her breath as he captured a rose peak of one of her average-sized breasts into his mouth with famishing urgency. Using his teeth to roll over her nipple, Angela struggled to breathe as he continued to hold her throat firmly.

"Dono! Ah!"

He let go and went back up to look into her eyes, feeling and sensing her burning need for him as he reached down and felt the soft, damp center of passion between her creamy thighs. Angela moved against his fingers, feeling him caress her smooth pink petals as her arousal got all over his fingers. Donovan had finished licking the stale blood off Angela's skin before thrusting a finger into the portals of her womanhood, feeling her hips gyrate in time with his digits.

"Ah! Please…you're torturing me," she moaned softly.

"You torture me," he said.

Without any more words, she rolled him over on his back and looked down at him, reaching down and stroking his hard, thick member before lining it against the cleft between her legs. She could tell he was burning with desire, so she lowered herself onto him and moaned softly as his spear of flesh entered her, being welcomed and fully accepted by her liquid heat.

"Dono…"

"Oh yeah," he moaned, thrusting his hips upward toward her as she began to bounce up and down on him.

"Dono…oh Dono…yes…" she moaned softly, her average-sized orbs rising and falling in time with her breath as heavy sighs were caught in her throat. His hands went to her hips and he began to thrust up, a visceral impulse taking him over as he tossed his head back, feeling her wet sheath squeezing and contracting around him.

"Oh, Angela! Yes! YES!" he shouted.

As she reached down to rub her most sensitive bundle of nerves, she could almost feel her climax coming on. Donovan kept heaving himself up into her, desperate to fill every inch of her on the inside before feeling a familiar twinge in the tip of his member.

"I'm cumming!" he grunted.

"Oh, me too! Dono! Yes…ah!" she growled sharply in response.

Angela, already vulnerable, had Donovan at her mercy as she exploded into a thousand pieces in an earth-shattering release joined by his harsh groan and spill of masculine satisfaction inside the confines of her contracted, tight walls. When she got off him, she felt his seed spilling out of her, and she went up to Donovan, who openly held her in a warm embrace as kissed her forehead softly.

"That…" he breathed sharply, "was the best."

" _You_ were the best," she argued kindly with a smile of satisfaction.

She just grinned, her lips turning upward in a grin with the eternal vitality sparkling in her cat-like blue eyes as she leaned down and pressed her lips gently against his. His pompadour was in a slight scuffle as his brown locks rested between her fingers, but he didn't care one bit. Not one bit.

* * *

Two days later, Angela had gotten freshened up and felt almost human again. Once she blow-dried her dark chocolate waves, she put on an ensemble consisting of a plain black pencil skirt and a button-up white blouse with cuff sleeves and a fold-over collar. She ended up piling her hair in a simple up-do with a few bobby pins and a shorter, less-wavy piece hanging off to the side. She looked rather stylish that morning, but her face was gaunt, as though she had been famished for more blood since her feeding the night before.

She went down the elevator, but on her way to the front desk, Angela could see Will conversing with the enigmatic Countess, who was dressed in a gaudy, canary-yellow gown with long sleeves and a cape-like design in the back of the dress. Angela hung back, walking slowly as she overheard the plans for the wedding ceremony between the two.

"We move all of this," he said, pointing his finger to the crimson-red, upholstered lounge chairs and coffee tables. "I pop in a dance floor over there. Calvin Harris is in charge of the music, so I will book him a flight tonight so he can be here by tomorrow."

She was clearly displeased—"let's not have some big vulgar display. I'd rather we just do something simple and intimate."

"W-What did you have in mind?" Will questioned, a bit disappointed that she disapproved of his ideas.

"All I need is you. Then we have a justice of the peace to officiate the ceremony, Lachlan will be the ringbearer, and we will decorate with lilies of the valley," she explained, putting her forearms on his shoulders.

"Are you kidding?" he asked in a rather brash, conceited manner. "I am Will Drake! _Will Drake_! One of fashion's biggest names is getting _married_!" Angela kept listening, a bit disgusted with how childlike he sounded, as if he were a five year-old not getting his way. "This wedding _needs_ to be _the_ event of the season. Trust me, I'm a showman. This is what I do."

"Well, I'm no show pony," she scoffed; Angela could really sense her frustrations. _I feel bad_ , she thought as she kept walking slow enough to hear their conversation, _Will seems a bit out of his mind_.

"What are you talking about?" her fiancé asked dismissively.

"I love you, Will," Elizabeth cut in, holding her hands to his face rather roughly, but strangely enough it didn't faze him. "You need _me_. I'm restorative, but you let the world suck you dry of _any_ inspiration, and now you want to invite them back in? I can't be a part of that. It's _them_ or _me_. End of discussion."

Will nodded rapidly and kissed Elizabeth's hand; "I'm _so_ sorry, Elizabeth. Forgive me. I'm just ahead of myself. I just…I get so excited. It's always been you, love. If you want something intimate, then that's what it'll be." He paused with a proud smile. "This is your wedding."

"No," she disagreed with a grin, "it's _our_ wedding. You finish the gown you designed me, and I'll take care of everything else.

Angela pressed forward, walking faster and picking up the pace toward the front desk, but Will's voice stopped her in her tracks as soon as she got behind the counter.

"Miss Saxon!" he exclaimed playfully. "Good morning!"

"Oh, uh," she stammered, trying to be polite. "Good morning, Will." Then she looked to the Countess and smiled, but she was unamused.

"You seem nervous," she said in her enchantingly haunted, eerily feminine voice.

"I-I'm perfectly alright," Angela said boldly, straightening her tone so she was not tempted to stammer in her presence. "Why do you ask?"

"I was not asking you anything," Elizabeth replied rather crudely, looking at the crisp white color of her shirt. "You must take care not to stain that shirt. It's too lovely to be ruined."

Will gave a short, embarrassed smile, staying at the counter as he watched his fiancée walk toward Liz, who had come down the steps of the grand staircase with a cigarette while donning a bright purple turban hat and a matching dress with black pumps. He looked rather pretentious, but Angela could sense his anger and resentment toward Elizabeth for killing Tristan.

"Say," she heard the transvestite drone between drags, "I suppose it _would_ be a little awkward with all that…paparazzi around and you being so…camera shy, as it were."

"Have the flowers delivered by no later than Wednesday morning." Elizabeth was not fond of her subordinate's attitude, and it showed through her own assertive, haunting tone.

Then, Angela was shocked to see Liz snap in front of her.

"You're kidding," she spat. "Bitch, do you honestly think I would lift a finger to help you with your wedding after what you did?"

"Oh, stop being a drama queen," Elizabeth said coldly. "Tristan never loved you. He didn't know how to love."

She could see Liz's face growing angrier and redder as he expressed his disdain and newfound hatred for his superior; "You didn't know him _at all_! He _did_ love me!" His teeth were still gritted, and his blue eyes stayed cold on her the whole time. You may have taken him away, but I will not let you take _that_."

Angela was clearly unsettled by the look in Elizabeth's haunting, hypnotizing light brown eyes. She feared for Liz's life, especially when he delivered his next sentence of anger and rage.

"Buy your _own_ goddamn flowers," he spat.

The Countess scowled at him, nearly pushing him out of her way as she moved up the staircase without looking behind her as Liz stood with pure anger at the bottom of the stairs, walking over to where Will was standing in front of the counter Angela was working behind. The brunette looked to Will, who stared back wondering what was going on.

"Will?" she asked. "Could you excuse us?"

"Certainly," he obliged, walking away from the counter and up the stairs.

Liz's Egyptian-styled eyes met Angela's cat-like ones as she delivered a short statement expressing her concern for his safety.

"Do you have a death wish, Liz?" she questioned.

"Angela, I don't know anymore," he replied. "I haven't been the same. You know that."

"No shit," the afflicted young woman spat. "You could've gotten yourself _killed_!"

"At least I'm right where I need to be," he said with doubt.

"Please, Liz," Angela said, grabbing his hand. "I care about you a lot. You're my friend. Please don't put yourself in a position. _Please_."

There was a silence, but he began to speak again, a tear nearly coming to his eye.

"She wants me as a witness in the ceremony," he revealed.

"Be careful, Liz," Angela said gravely. "Please."

"I will. Don't worry about me."

* * *

Meanwhile, Will had been walking down the same corridor where Room 64 was located. To get his mind off the commotion of the wedding, he treated himself to a walk only to be stopped by a familiar face.

"H-Hello?" he called out.

It was the figure of a woman with strawberry-blonde hair, gray-blue eyes, and a rather peculiar outfit consisting of a heavy floral pattern on her knee-length black dress with enough ornamentation to downplay the outfit; rings and bangles covered her wrists and fingers, and she wore a dreamcatcher necklace along with a cross pendant and a brown crystalline geode on a faux suede string—it was Pamela.

"Hey there," she replied. "Remember me?"

"I… _think_?"

"I'm Pamela. I picked out Angela for you that night at the fashion show," she revealed.

"Oh I remember!" he exclaimed. "She and I are working on my spring line actually. She's great!"

"Oh really?" she asked.

"Yeah. I can definitely see she's got a promising career ahead of her," he told her.

What she said next chilled his bones to frigid pain and discomfort, and she just looked at him in an indescribable way: "what if, by chance…you weren't able to release your line this spring?"

His penetrating blue eyes widened, and his heart sank.

"W-What do you mean?" he questioned after a moment of heart-stopping silence.

"Mr. Drake," she said starting a new train of thought. "Did I ever tell you I was a police psychic?"

He just looked at her, but didn't answer as she continued.

"I never sugar-coat what I see. In fact, I can tell you right now," she continued, moving closer to him as the bottoms of her black boots hit the painfully geometric carpet, "that if you go on and marry the Countess, death is in the cards for you."

" _What_?" he asked emphatically. "Don't be ridiculous!"

"I'm NOT ridiculous!" Pamela exclaimed. "You got to believe me! I had a vision. She is going to bleed you bone dry, sir."

"She'd _never_!" he grunted. "Get lost, and I don't want to see you in my hotel again."

At this, Pamela just laughed hysterically, nearly toppling over and hitting her head and shoulder against the hallway wall before composing herself and looking up into his eyes with clasped her hands in front of her chest.

"I'm sorry, that was just so funny," she chuckled, finishing her laughing fit. "But I'm also sorry because, well, I'm dead. I haunt this place. I can't leave."

Will just backed up a few steps, shaking his head with trepidation and horror as she stared back at him from under her top lashes, batting them up and down as she watched him get gradually more horrified with her ghostly presence. When he finally walked away, she giggled and saw him speedwalking toward the elevator.

"Dumbass," she muttered with a laugh.

Pamela turned on her heels and walked back to where she came from, further and further down the hallway until she heard ear-piercing shrieking and rapid footsteps. Putting her hand to the wall, she tried to trace the origin of the sound, sliding it along as she walked until she reached an open door. She was practically invisible as she peeked into the suite, seeing a horror show consisting of Iris with a carving knife approaching what looked to be a prostitute.

"Please don't kill me!" the woman begged tearfully. "Please don't—"

 _JAB-gush!_

Pamela gasped at the sight of Iris driving the serrated blade of the knife into the woman's chest, severing her heart as a pool of blood began to pour like a waterfall from her chest. Looking down at her feet, the ghost of the police psychic could see an older man with a video camera laying lifeless with his throat slit from ear to ear and sanguine fluid began to dry to his Botox-polluted skin.

In an even more twisted turn of events, despite being shocked at the scene, Pamela made herself as unnoticeable as possible while watching Iris grab huge pans from the suite's kitchen and position the wounds on the fresh corpses over them. The prostitute was propped between two chairs, and on the floor was a pan to collect every drop of blood her heart contained. The other corpse was positioned over another pan, which filled rather quickly but not as fast as the one beneath the hooker.

Pamela moved aside and out of sight as she watched Donovan enter the room with a shocked look on his face; however, it didn't take just her psychic talents to conclude that he was hungry and needed to feed.

"Hello, Iris," she heard him say ceremoniously.

"Dono, what are you doing here?" she asked, filling a wine glass with some blood still dripping from the prostitute's wound near the heart.

"Wow," he said with amazement, smiling at the bloody scene. "You have clearly come into your own."

"Because of you," she said nonchalantly. "I was actually meaning to talk to you and Angela, and Liz, too. There's been a problem."

"What do you mean?" Donovan questioned, furrowing his brows inward.

"I'm worried that she's going put it together that all of us are in cahoots," Iris expressed. "We need a plan B."

"I'm way ahead of you," her son answered, taking the glass full of blood and sipping from it in a huge, famished gulp. "The Countess thinks I'm back with her."

Pamela, who had been listening from outside, furrowed her brows in and shook her head, knowing there was way more to the story than just what she was hearing firsthand.

"You're going to sit there and tell me she doesn't have her hooks in you?"

Pamela could sense the deception behind his response—"not at all, mother. Look, just sit tight and keep quiet. The less you know, the better. I'm going to go and get Angela and Liz. We will go to Ramona's."

Then, before the police psychic considered leaving from the scene she eavesdropped on, she heard the voice of a man coming from in the room.

"Can someone call the police?!" she heard him shout.

Donovan traced the sound to the bathroom, seeing the only survivor of the scene hiding within. As he pulled him out, she watched the two tape his mouth shut and tie is arms and wrists behind his back.

 _What the hell_ , she thought to herself as she faded out of view.

* * *

 _Ding-dong!_

Ramona walked gracefully toward the front door of her Beverly Hills mansion, the billowing silk skirt tracing her long, caramel-colored legs as she opened the door to four familiar faces plus a man who was tied up and bound at the arms and wrists. She gasped, looking at the man and then to Donovan, to whom she scowled.

"What the hell?" she asked. "Who the hell is this?

"It's not polite to visit a friend empty-handed," Donovan said, holding the gagged-and-bound man by the hair while his mother held the back of his wrists. He grunted and struggled, scared for his life as Ramona just scowled at the two afflicted along with Liz and Angela.

"Shut up," she snapped.

"Excuse you!" Angela retorted.

"Not you, _him_ ," Ramona said, pointing her finger at her ally. "I saw what kind of friend you were."

"What are you talking about?" Donovan questioned with a nasty scoff.

"You're a scared little pussy," the black woman sneered. "You couldn't find your balls if they were dangling by a string on her bedpost. You could never be the kind of man I need to take her down." She then looked to Iris, Liz and Angela. " _You_ three, come in. Donovan, get out _now_!"

As the three entered her mansion's foyer as instructed, Donovan pushed through with the man he had tied and gagged, determined to convince the leader of their revenge on the Countess.

"You're wrong!" he yelled, tossing the man on the floor like nothing more than an object. "I've been newly motivated."

Ramona rolled her eyes, and Angela nearly laughed at her subtle poke at his intelligence: "Tell me more. I love a good humiliation. What did she do to you that she hasn't already done?"

"She…" Donovan gulped and shook his head. "She took me back."

Angela's heart sank— _not again_ , she thought. It all made sense to her now; when he told her he didn't know if he loved her or not, she knew why now. How could he have done that to her? Did he feel entitled to her because he saved her life and she owed him? Did their night together mean nothing at all? She turned a sickly pale, which Liz was the first to notice. Her heart began to rip as he went on.

"The Countess told me she made a mistake, and I was the one. Forever." He paused, and Angela had to hold back tears. "We made love like it was the first time."

"B-But you didn't believe her… _did_ you?" Angela asked, shaken up by the fact that he blatantly hurt her in front of everyone; she could feel the intensity of the pain caused by the fists clenching at her sides, awaiting an answer from him.

"I did," he said remorselessly, with no consideration of Angela's feelings. "I wanted her even more than I did before, because I knew what it felt like to live without her."

 _PUNCH!_

Angela could not hold in her hurt feelings and anger anymore as he digressed with how the Countess took him back after just leaving him in the dust like she did. She hurled her clenched right fist at his face, causing him to fall back from the force behind the punch.

"You SON OF A BITCH!" the afflicted brunette screamed.

"HEY!" Iris shouted. "STOP!"

"If only you _knew_ why I was mad!" Angela screamed back, turning her attention to Donovan. "You think you can just slam me, bam me, and run off into her arms again?! YOU FUCK!"

"I don't blame her," Ramona muttered under her breath to Liz, who just watched expressionlessly as the black woman spoke out to him as he lay on the floor trying to get up. "I told you, Donovan, you're a pussy."

"STOP!" Donovan groaned loudly. "I can explain! It's just a ruse!"

"A ruse?!" the brunette shouted back. "A _RUSE_?!"

"SHUT UP! LISTEN!" the man shouted, grabbing her shoulders and looking down into her eyes intently as he spoke out his plans to the group. "Listen! Geez! Well, before you punched me in the face, I was going to tell you that it was RUSE! I have it all planned out…"

"You do?" Ramona asked. "Let's hear it."

"Okay, so the Countess' wedding is in a couple days," Donovan began. "She's already distracted with all the arrangements and stuff. In fact, I plan to go there the night before and sleep with her, and then I'm going to put enough GHB in her nightly cocktail to knock out three horses cold. But…" He looked to Ramona, "you know you're going to have to pull the trigger."

"I can appreciate a man who sees the weaknesses in himself," Ramona said.

Iris interrupted, sticking a finger in the air; "wait, what are _we_ going to do?"

"I was chosen to be a witness at the ceremony," Liz said. "I'll stall it any way I can."

"You need to be careful," Angela said. "You almost got killed earlier. I could see she wanted your blood bad, Liz."

"She won't kill me," he answered. "I'm more than just sure of it. She created me. She wouldn't be that stupid."

"She's only marrying Will for his money," Liz disclosed.

"She _what_?" Angela asked. "Why?"

"I kept this to myself the whole time, but here goes," the transvestite began. "She lost it all in the Madoff Ponzi scheme."

"Wow."

"So now, she is marrying Will so she can inherit his riches when she kills him," Liz continued. "Tristan confided in me before he was…you know…"

"I understand," Angela said. "But we are going to _save_ Will _and_ Lachlan. I will personally make sure Will is safe and protected."

"A-Are you sure?" Ramona asked.

"Positive. I won't let her kill anyone else," the afflicted brunette said. "I'll get them out of the hotel if I have to. Mark my words. That Countess will never find them."

"I like the way you think," Ramona smiled.

"We all are in the Hotel Cortez by early Wednesday morning," Donovan said. "Ramona and I will be upstairs to take out Elizabeth while she's asleep."

"The rest of us will all be in different parts of the hotel," Iris added, raising a finger. "We can't raise suspicions in case someone catches us, or if worst comes to worst, the plan doesn't go as planned. I wanted to call this meeting to express the concern that I worry about the Countess realizing we are all in cahoots."

"Good idea," Liz said, giving his feedback.

"Wait," Angela cut in, looking at Donovan, "I thought you said the afflicted never get caught?"

He smirked, his eyes piercing her boldly—"only if you are careful can you truly get away with anything."

* * *

The night before the Countess' wedding to Will Drake, Angela had been walking around the hotel to perform standard maintenance checks, but also to ensure the suitability of the rooms and general lobby for the ceremony. She had been given direct instructions by Will, who had also discussed, in brief, that he was working on the black lace dress he designed for his spring collection. Angela was tempted to talk about the Countess and her intentions, but did not want to anger him for the sake of her promising modelling career ahead.

At the same time, it was her duty to keep both he and his son safe from the Countess.

So she was torn, and in fact looking for answers.

At no better time did a familiar female voice call out to her from behind.

"Hey."

Turning around, she smiled to see Pamela wearing a string of pearls and her dreamcatcher pendant over a robin's egg blue, knee-length dress and brown boots coming up to meet the skirt of the dress halfway. Her strawberry-blonde hair looked side-swept and her blue-gray eyes looked right at her with a grin on her face. Angela smiled back and blinked a few times.

"I'm sure glad to see you," the afflicted young woman said happily.

"You got questions?" Pamela asked, "because I have answers."

"Then tell me those answers," Angela joked, " _please_."

"Right this way. Follow me."

The afflicted brunette followed the spirit of the police psychic back to her and Liz's shared room; it puzzled her at first as to how she knew exactly where it was, but then remembered she had been there when she woke to her immortal life as an afflicted. Upon entering, Liz had been simply reading _Little Women_ until he looked up and saw Pamela. He smiled and closed his hardcover, putting it on the vanity table and turning around.

"How are you?" he asked the ghost.

"I'm great. I got answers for Angela and you," Pamela said, "about your alliance against Bloodsucker."

"I hope it's good news," Liz said, raising one of his heavily-defined eyebrows upward.

"It's important, that's for sure."

The ghostly figure took a seat at the desk near the far side of the suite neighboring the television and the living room furniture set. Taking out her wooden cup filled with a thick suede bag, she dumped what looked to be pebbles into the cup, closing her eyes and shaking the cup as if she were playing Yahtzee. Liz and Angela looked on in curiosity, and once the pebbles hit the surface of the desk, Pamela looked back at the two before placing her hands over the stones, taking a breath and dictating out loud everything she saw exactly as it came to her.

"This…" she muttered, her heavily-blinged hands hovering over an area of stones that was an even group of five with one stone looking astray from the rest. "This I saw earlier."

"W-What does it mean? What do you see?" Liz asked.

"This represents the five of you as a team," she explained, "but this one…" She pointed to the misaligned pebble in the perfectly-arranged group, "there is one member who has made a huge mistake already."

Angela gulped nervously—"which one? I-Is it Donovan?"

"I don't see him. It's a woman," Pamela said, the real scene coming to mind and playing out like a movie clip as she closed her eyes and tried to identify the faces within:

" _My son is dead, and my governess is still finding who killed him," said the Countess._

" _Don't look at me," Iris replied. "I didn't do it."_

" _I demand to know who's responsible," the vampy, albino-like woman replied coldly but with tears coming from her eyes. "I won't have peace of mind until I know who did this!"_

" _Well, wasn't me," Iris said. "I know you're upset, but—"_

" _Is the life you're protecting really worth losing your own?" the Countess scowled. "Don't lie to me!"_

" _Donovan had nothing to do with it," Iris said, throwing her hand in the air._

" _Then who?!"_

 _The mature, afflicted woman sighed and shook her head—"it was Ramona Royale."_

Liz and Angela just looked at each other upon hearing this shocking revelation. The transvestite lit a cigarette and rested his chin in his palm, shaking his head as he smoked.

"Oh my god," he muttered.

"A-Are you shitting me right now?" Angela asked, nearly in a frustrated rage. "Are you sure it's Iris?"

"That's what I'm seeing," Pamela said. "I wouldn't lie."

"I…wonder," Angela added, "should we still trust her? I…feel kinda bad right now."

"It's up to you. That's why she said she was nervous about Bloodsucker finding out if you guys were all a team," the psychic told her. "In fact, did she give you guys an idea to prevent any suspicions?"

"Only to stay in different parts of the hotel," Liz recalled, "because if we are all in one place, that's what will happen. Angela and I are in this room, and Iris is downstairs managing the desk."

"Then she undid the damage. I wouldn't worry," the police psychic responded nonchalantly.

"But wait, where is Dono and Ramona?" Angela asked.

All it took was a glance at the stones to find the location of the two other group members—"they're going in for the kill."

"Right now?" Angela asked.

Pamela nodded, but the silence from her was unnerving. Liz and Angela just made eye contact for a moment while the police psychic looked down at the scattered stones making meaningless patterns on the table. Yet they held a lot of meaning for the one reading their random chance arrangements.

"Pamela?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you seeing anything?"

Truth is, she was and exactly as it was happening.

"They high up in the penthouse…" she explained…"tip-toeing…the Countess is drugged…"

"As promised," Angela recalled.

"She has a big knife and he has a taser," Pamela described.

" _I'm gonna stab her in the heart and cut off her head," Ramona sneered, anticipating her killing of the Countess._

" _Wait, what do you want me to do?" Donovan asked._

" _Watch."_

Pamela was hearing their dialogue in real-time, but kept describing to Angela and Liz what was actually happening in the penthouse as they pursued the unconscious Countess to kill her.

"I…I have a feeling…t-they're approaching the bed…"

"What? What's happening?" Angela asked frantically.

When Pamela gasped, it scared them all even Pamela herself.

"Oh my god," she said, shaking as she put her hands to her mouth.

"WHAT?!" Angela asked frighteningly.

"Donovan," Pamela said.

"What about him?" Liz asked, his eyes widened as he put out his cigarette.

"He used the taser on Ramona," Pamela said. "The Countess woke up…I…you…"

 _That bastard_ , Angela thought angrily, her jaw dropped.

"W-What are we gonna do?" the young afflicted woman asked frantically.

"I got _two_ on my hitlist now," Pamela said angrily, standing up and putting her stones back into the bag and bag into the cup that held them.

"Why didn't you kill John?" Angela asked, suddenly remembering her plans to do so.

"Because he hasn't been here," the police psychic said. "He's got to come back in order for me to kill him. I can't leave here."

"We got to get moving!" Liz exclaimed, standing up and dragging Angela away from Pamela's presence. "We need to warn Iris!"


	22. Chapter 21

**_~ chapter twenty-one ~_**

When Ramona woke up, she had no sense of time nor did she have the energy to move. She was famished for blood, and the minute she opened her eyes, she felt a tightness around her neck. That same tightness was also surrounding her arms and legs snugly, but it didn't take long to realize she was actually locked in a caged iron maiden.

Groaning in pain with a feeling of dread in the vicinity, she gritted her teeth and started to shake herself the minute she felt even just a little drive to move. The iron maiden rattled, and her hands were tightly bound into position.

But the moment she heard footsteps, her already rapid heart began to pound like thunder in her chest. Her breath began to crack, and she nearly hyperventilated.

However, it was a relief to see that it was no one but Iris, walking toward the iron maidens with a look of shock in her eyes.

"Iris…p-please…"

"What the hell happened?!" the mature, afflicted woman asked.

"That son of yours, that's what," Ramona replied. "Get me o-out of here!"

"Donovan?" Iris asked with disbelief. "He put you in here?!"

"Is this ballsy enough for you?" a voice suddenly cut in.

Stepping down from the mini set of steps leading down to the ballroom-turned-torture area was Iris' worst nightmare—Donovan, who had been holding the taser used on Ramona to render her unconscious shortly after the Countess awoke from her stupor under the drugs he claimed to have put in her drink. He smirked and shrugged slightly, looking down at his mother.

"Donovan!" she exclaimed. "What the hell? I don't understand this! We're using her as bait? Did she agree to this? Is this your plan?"

"There is no plan B," he snickered evilly.

"Well, then what are we doing?" his mother asked with confusion.

"We are collecting our enemies and putting them in here," Donovan conspired. "We're going to hate-watch."

"Our enemies?" she was clearly confused, and Ramona, still stuck in the metal iron maiden, was even moreso angry. "You mean her enemies, don't you?"

What he said next confirmed everything—"her enemies are my enemies."

"You piece of shit!" Ramona spat through the cage.

"God, Donovan! Are you INSANE?!" his mother shrieked.

"She loves me, Iris!" her son cried out, throwing his arms in the air. "I never stopped loving her. Anyone who's against us is going to end up in here, so just keep that in mind!"

Iris was furious at his betrayal: "There is no us with that bitch. It's just her and surviving until she decides it's time for you to die! All five of us! It's the only chance we have to destroy her!"

"Did you really think a group as big as five people could ever be partners?" Donovan challenged. "You stupid cow! It's too big of a group!"

"Well, then why did you save me?"

"I was weak," he spat. "I should have let you die, and I should have let Angela die, too!"

 _SMACK!_

"How dare you?!" she screeched. "You deserved to be punched in the face! You're the one who's going to die, son!"

"Wish granted!" a voice called from a distance.

 _BAM!_

Ramona strained a neck muscle, still trapped in the body-size contraption as she watched Iris' jaw drop at the fact that Donovan was shot in the back of the head at a reasonable range away. The mature, afflicted woman went to the body and nearly had a deadly conniption at the scene.

"DONO!" she screamed tearfully, burying her face on his now bloodied body with fragments of brain matter scattered on him. "NO…No….No…"

Ramona turned her head only enough, with her neck confined in the cuff within the contraption, to see Pamela armed with a Glock handgun with Angela behind her. Iris got a glance as she looked up in shock, seeing the Glock in Pamela's hand and still in the proper shooting stance. Angela had her fingers in her ears, but slowly took them out to only hear more chaos that was worse than gunshots.

"YOU KILLED MY SON!" the woman cried out.

"Served him right," Ramona muttered under her breath; but Pamela could hear her.

"Yeah," she agreed. "He outright betrayed you!"

"She's right," Angela added.

"SHUT UP!" Iris cried out. "YOU KILLED MY SON!"

"What?" Pamela asked, as though she did nothing wrong. "You just said he's going to die."

"I DIDN'T MEAN TO WATCH HIM GET KILLED!" Iris cried. "W-Why…n-no…Dono…"

As she sobbed, Pamela felt entirely unfeeling and insensitive to the situation, going to her and Donovan's fresh corpse and shouting out her justification for his righteous murder for his betrayal of the alliance against the Countess.

"How could you sit there and be sad over your son?!" she asked fiercely. "After all the YEARS of treatment he's shown you! Treating you like the SHIT on the bottom of his shoes?! How could you SIT there and CRY over him?!"

"Pamela, don't rub it in," Angela insisted.

"Shut up." Pamela was blunt in her response and continued. "Iris, you've sacrificed TWENTY DAMN YEARS of your life for this guy! He didn't want to see you for a good majority of it! Now that he's gone back with that monster in the penthouse, he thinks it's okay to betray the group and put YOUR LIVES at risk, and you want to CRY over him?! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"

"He was my son," Iris repeated tearfully. "Y-You wouldn't understand…"

"I guarantee you were going to be NEXT in those stockade thingies over there!" the police psychic said, pointing the Glock handgun over at the empty iron maiden. "Left to die or be tortured by the one you are after!" She paused. "One of them…was your son."

Ramona was extremely uncomfortable, and looked to Angela, Pamela, or Iris as she struggled in her tight confines.

"G-Get me out…" she pleaded.

Pamela was the first to respond, putting the gun in the shaft of her knee-high boot as she went behind the iron maiden and found a lever, pulling it a certain way before Ramona corrected her.

"The other way."

When she pushed it upwards, the stockade opened and Ramona, with cramped muscles all over her body, felt liberated as she stepped out and scratched an itchy part of her skin while stretching out her bodily extremities to a comfortable level. Seeing Donovan's fresh corpse start to fester with flies collecting around the gunshot, she looked to Iris, who still looked distraught over her son's killing by Pamela.

"Leave him," she instructed. "We have a wedding to stall…and a bitch to kill."

* * *

Liz was furious—standing in the presence of the woman he now hated was an impossible feat for most, but he was very impressed with his self-control as the ceremony began. He had to also give her away under the arch, seeing her dressed in a wedding gown designed entirely by Will Drake, while Lachlan was the ringbearer for the event. He himself was dressed in a dark purple Nehru-styled dress with a gold turban hat and his genuine diamond earrings once purchased by the Countess herself.

Then the opportunity arose— _she's going to get it good_ , he thought to himself as the justice spoke.

"If anyone present knows any reason why this man and this woman should not be joined in marriage, please speak now or forever hold your peace," he announced.

Liz raised his hand, catching the officiant's attention.

"Uh, y-yes…uh, sir?"

"It's ma'am," Liz corrected. "So yeah, uh…well, because she's a bitch with no conscience, no mercy, and no soul."

Will just chuckled, but the Countess rolled her eyes, trying to conceal her anger within.

"Ignore her," she instructed. "She drinks."

"B-But the law requires a witness," the justice said.

"Honey, I've witnessed plenty!" Liz exclaimed with false excitement.

"Please proceed," Elizabeth ordered.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the justice said rapidly. "You may kiss the bride."

Liz was nearly sick to his stomach when he saw the bride and groom kiss, but when they let each other go, Lachlan looked up at his dad and to the Countess, whose smile down at him and to Will made him angrier and angrier.

"My family," she smiled, "I am so happy to finally be Mrs. Will Drake."

"Dad, can I go upstairs now?" Lachlan asked, clearly bored of the event.

"Of course you may," his father said. "Move along."

"And I am going to go upstairs and change out of this beautiful gown you've made me and put on my honeymoon clothes," she said.

"You sure you don't want to have a drink to celebrate first?" will asked with his eyebrow raised.

"That's what the honeymoon is for," Elizabeth said with a smile. "I'd like to get that started."

"Well, I'm having a drink," the designer said with disagreement.

"You own the bar, darling," she said, turning her gaze over to Liz.

The transvestite was filled with hatred and odium at the one he had called superior for so many years. The cruel gaze in his startling blue eyes was growing in intensity as she came over and extended the bouquet of flowers she had been holding during the ceremony—he refused to put his hands out and accept them.

"My dear Liz," she said facetiously, making him even more furious. "These are for you, with my genuine hope that you someday find true love. One never knows when it may appear."

Liz extended his hands and tightly wrapped his hands around hers, the intention of hurting her fingers in the process—"what you did was unforgivable."

The new bride of Will Drake just looked at him and took her hands off the stem of the bouquet of flowers, staring into his eyes with her enchanting, light brown ones as she kept her face blank.

"You killed my true love, Elizabeth. I have to live with a broken heart now because of you." He said, getting his eyes nearly full of tears as he remembered the face of Tristan. "I can't go on like this. You created me, and helped me transform into the woman I truly am inside, but…I cannot pledge my allegiances to you any longer."

Elizabeth looked down at the bouquet and took her hands away rather quickly, looking him dead in the eyes. For the first time in forever, Liz saw a hint of sadness and guilt in her facial expression. Had she felt terrible for the heinous act she had committed? The transvestite didn't even question it, hearing her haunting words that came next.

"Well…" she said under her breath, feigning sadness. "In that case, you should be seeing your true love soon, then…"

 _SLICE!_

Liz had not even fought her presence away through his usual subtleties and non-verbal cues, nor was it that he did not see this coming; in fact, he welcomed it, his inevitable end met by the sharp end of her talon-like appendage attached to the index finger of her white glove. As blood poured from the deep wound she left across his throat, she backed away to avoid getting her dress messy but watched him die rather rapidly from exsanguination with tears in her eyes.

It had been the first kill in a very long while to make her feel remorse of any kind.

* * *

Within the chaotic hallways of the Hotel Cortez, Tristan had wandered aimlessly, worrying and feeling ill at ease at the seemingly haunting vacancy of the halls. Sure, there were other spirits roaming about of those who had died there, but missing Liz was the worst.

The metal rivets in his raven black pants clanked as he walked, looking around as he continued to roam the hallways of the hotel. It seemed non-stop, an abyss from which he could not escape; in fact, he seemed lost.

But that all changed when his light blue eyes looked up and ahead at a figure too familiar to miss.

"H-Hello…?"

He called out, but as the figure drew nearer, he could see it was a male in woman's clothing dressed head to toe in finery—a dark, royal purple Nehru-styled dress with a gold turban hat and genuine diamond earrings. His long nails were manicured, painted a cherry red, and his eyes were made-up in the signature Egyptian style first donned by the famous, violet-eyed actress who portrayed _Cleopatra_. He saw the familiar figure nearly break down, running toward him as though they had been apart for decades.

" _Tristan_!"

"Oh my god…" the male model's spirit cried, his tears falling into the shoulder of his love. "Liz…h-how…"

"There was no way I could _ever_ be loyal to the one who killed you," the transvestite cried, looking up at Tristan with the tears wrecking her Egyptian-styled eye makeup.

"She _killed_ you?" he questioned.

He nodded, and felt Tristan take him closer into him.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be," Liz replied, his hands on Tristan's shoulders. "I…I _wanted_ to die."

"You… _what_?" the male model questioned, caressing his damp face.

"Yes…I'm stupid, I know…" Liz said, "but...being with you forever in death is heaven compared to a miserable life alone."

"I would've wanted you to live," Tristan said, "so you could be happy."

Liz looked up into his eyes and shook his head, tears flowing down from them as he gave a chilling statement—"I'm not happy without you. You are my happiness."

Without any further discussion, Tristan leaned down and pressed his lips into Liz's, tasting the bittersweet fervor of his return as he tried to dip his tongue past his lover's. As Liz suckled his tender lips back, he wrapped his arms around his shoulders and held him close, breaking the kiss only to feel an unreal heartbeat between them, a spark of reunion in their gazes.

"I love you," Tristan mouthed.

"And I love you," Liz forced through an emotional, joyous sob.

Unbeknownst to the two reunited lovers, Pamela had been watching them from afar and was touched by their display of affection. It didn't take a psychic impression to know that Liz had been dead, but that fact alone along with their tearful afterlife reunion brought a tear to her own eye. Watching them embrace each other made her feel so happy for the two, and the tears shed to express this were the first she had shed in many years.

* * *

After releasing Ramona down in the ballroom-turned-torture chamber, the group split up but not before disposing of Donovan's body down the nearest chute and cleaning up the bits of brain matter that had splattered when Pamela dealt his fatal shot to the head. Iris, Ramona and Angela all made a group effort to thoroughly clean the area, and Miss Evers, with her remarkable sense of where deaths occur in the hotel, came to lend a hand.

"What a mess," she said sinisterly. "Nothing better than a blown brain!"

"Thanks, Miss Evers," Angela said. "We appreciate the help."

Iris, however, was still angry and resentful at Pamela—yet the police psychic's ghost had a point; Donovan had treated her horribly over the twenty years she spent working at the hotel under the rule of the Countess. She even said so herself he would die, but at the hands of the Countess—instead, it was at the hand of a vengeful ghost who was concerned for the lives of her living acquaintances in the alliance against Elizabeth.

"I can't believe it," the older woman muttered under her breath.

"He betrayed us. He could have put our lives at stake, Iris," Ramona said spitefully, looking down at Donovan's corpse with anger and frustration.

"He was my son…" Iris began to break down into tears, but Angela reached to put a hand on her shoulder as soon as a tear fell onto Donovan's body, which was put on one of the room service carts and covered with a white sheet by Miss Evers before her sudden departure.

"I know, Iris," Angela said expressionlessly, desensitized by his death because he had caused a couple of cracks in her heart.

"W-What he did to you was unacceptable," she added, speaking to the young afflicted woman.

"True, true," Angela responded, cocking up an eyebrow while looking down at the covered corpse they were pushing down the hallway to the nearest chute. "That's why I couldn't have given a _shit_ if he died."

Iris' eyes widened with shock— _how could she be so cold_ , she thought.

"I'm more sad for you, if that means anything," Angela added. "I'm not a complete bitch."

"Say, wasn't Liz supposed to meet us back down here?" Ramona questioned.

 _Shit_ , Angela thought with worry, _I hope he's okay_.

"W-We should go upstairs and check the room we share," she suggested.

"Good idea."

After Donovan was pushed down the chute to meet with the other corpses below the dark, cold basement of the hotel, Angela and Ramona discreetly went up to the floor on which she shared a room with Liz. Walking down the endless hallways, she opened the door only to have her eyes widen by the presence of three people—Pamela, who stood with her arms crossed across her chest and her blue-gray eyes staring at the door intently, and Liz, who was naked in his bed with none other than Tristan with him beneath the sheets.

"Angela," Liz said with a smile. "How did things go?"

She and Ramona looked at Pamela with utter confusion, but the younger was the first to speak—"w-what's going on, Pamela?"

"We're happy now," Tristan added happily, looking at Angela. "I have my true love with me forever and ever."

He kissed Liz's cheek, who smiled in response with a peck to his lover's cheek. Angela just took a seat and pulled it up to the bed where Liz covered his chest like a woman would after being in bed with a man. Ramona sat at the vanity table, turning the stool around to face the ghost of the police psychic and the two lovers under the sheets.

"Liz?" Angela asked after a silence, tears starting to form in her eyes as she spoke. "W-What happened? W-Was the wedding stalled?"

"He tried," Pamela cut in. "But…"

"But _what_?" Ramona asked, interrupting her. "What happened?"

"It was only a matter of time before the Countess would slit my throat," Liz said, lighting a cigarette and smoking from it while still in Tristan's arms. "And…she did."

Angela could feel her heart beating in her chest, nearly unable to breathe as she tried to let this fact sink in—Liz was now a ghost, in bed with his true love, dead at the hands of the Countess. She tried to breathe, but only managed a few small inhalations before breaking down into tears before the four in front of her. Liz leaned over and hugged her, sharing tears with her as Angela mourned the death of one of her best friends made in the hotel.

"Shh," Liz lulled tearfully. "It's okay…I'm happy…"

"No, no," Angela sobbed… "it's…it's not okay…"

"Yes it is," the transvestite's ghost said. "I'm happy, and I have my true love with me forever and ever now. I don't have to fight anymore. I have gotten my justice."

Angela's tear-filled, feline blue eyes looked at him and she shook her head. "No, no. This is unforgivable…" She then looked up at Ramona, who stared down at her as she cried. "What TOOK you so long to FINALLY think of killing this bitch?! This is USELESS!"

Ramona said and sat back in the stool belonging to the vanity table, sighing sadly; "it was a hard twenty years."

"Why did you wait so long? My best friend is dead, all because they had no will to live after that bitch killed her one love!" Angela exclaimed sadly. "Tell me, WHY?!"

"She killed my man over twenty years ago and tossed me aside like I was nothing," she said with emphasis. "You know the only thing worse than heartbreak?"

"What?" That was Angela's response, crossing her arms over her chest.

There was silence, but Ramona's word bit at it with spite; "Loneliness, and not knowing when it's going to end."

"So…" Angela was interrupted by Ramona, who continued her rambling.

" _So_ , in my despair, I went to the only place in the world where I knew for sure there were people who loved me, and back to the only man in the world that I ever kneeled down for—my father."

Everyone in the room listened to the afflicted woman of color, who described her situation in great detail.

"I had not seen him in ten years before that. He asked me if I had done plastic surgery because of how good I looked. I had been crying. I was hurting, but only on the inside. Real bad. I asked if I could come in, and I did. I held my daddy like he was the last thing in the world I could cherish fully."

"How…sad," Pamela said, looking at the afflicted woman.

"It sure was. I was happy to be reunited with him." Ramona sighed and nodded. "I stayed for a few months. Mama fed my soul, and Daddy straightened me right out. My daddy pointed his finger at me and told me what was what, and I felt like a little girl again. I felt safe. However, he seemed to be, you know, out of it at times. He was old, after all. I remember my mama telling me that he would often lose his keys or forget what day it was. All my daddy said was that my mama was the sick one."

"I'm sorry," Angela said sadly, leaning forward. "That must've been difficult."

"Yes," Ramona described. "When I offered to drive him to the doctor, he would resist and say no, and that he was fine. As long as he was oaky, I didn't care if he snapped at me. He got worse when we lost Mama. They'd be married for sixty whole years, and she went in her sleep. Without her, his mind just couldn't find a reason to hang on. He started to get lost in his own neighborhood, and it got to the point where he couldn't find the house that he had lived in for forty straight years."

Liz looked at Tristan, holding him close as the male model's ghost kissed his shoulder. Ramona started getting nostalgic tears in her eyes.

She sniffled. "One night, I came home. There was a break-in. My daddy couldn't defend himself…and…h-he was beaten to death…and…when I found him…he w-was propped up in the r-rocking chair he always sat in…bruised…beaten...to see this great man laid so low…broke my heart."

"That's terrible," Angela whined sadly, touched by her story already.

"I thought everything would be fine," Ramona went on. "I'd seen that the virus had done miraculous things, like healing cuts or broken bones mending in a few day's time. At the time…I thought, w-why couldn't it also bring my daddy back to me? So…I fed him my blood…"

"He wasn't the same after, was he?" Pamela questioned, looking down at her.

"No…" Ramona replied solemnly. "He often mistaked me for mama. I had to keep reminding him I was his daughter. Little did I know, neurons are not cuts, and a diseased brain is not a broken bone. All the virus had done was stop the Alzheimer's progression. He was in no condition to hunt for himself or to even understand what he had become. So I took care of him. I brought him back blood from my kills. I held out hope that since he wasn't getting any worse, and maybe he'd get better, but he didn't."

"I can't imagine," Liz sighed. "All those years…"

"He just stayed the same," Ramona stated. "We were both stuck in amber for twenty years."

Pamela looked at Ramona, getting an intuitive sense and knowing full well that she was only telling a fraction of the story; "that's not all."

"Are you _really_ going there with me?" Ramona asked.

"No, but we're already there, so you might as well just tell us how he…met his _end_ …" Pamela droned inquisitively.

"I gave him a Xanax to make him calm…" Ramona's tears turned to full out sobbing by this point, remembering every painful moment that fateful night, the night her father passed: "I drew him a bath…and…"

"Shh," Angela lulled, tears coming from her own eyes as she went over to her fellow afflicted and hugged her from behind, leaning down and patting her back. "It's okay…y-you did what you had to…"

"O-Once he was gone, I-I realized that I was still frozen in amber, stuck in time," Ramona sobbed.

"What a sad story," Angela repeated. "I'm so sorry, Ramona…I really am…"

"Decades with my father went by like twenty minutes. I forgot everything. I felt nothing, but a lot of things happened in the world around me in those years," Ramona said, wiping her tears on a tissue Angela had given her from the box on the vanity; she sniffled and continued. "Folks started to recognize me again on the street. I started remembering, all of it, and what I had, what had been taken from me, and what she had done to me." She got more fierce and angrier with each minute her tone elevated. "My daddy's body died, but the _strength_ I took from his _breath_ stayed with me, and I am going to use all of it to _ruin_ that woman!"

* * *

Angela knew what she was destined for, but who knows if it were to lead to her ultimate fate. She was further driven by her devastation over Liz's death, who had become one of her best friends since beginning work and eventually living at the hotel, to oust the Countess even if it meant doing it by herself. She knew there had to be a way to also protect Will Drake and his young son Lachlan at the same time.

But how?

The answer was given to her later that day, seeing Will in the second-floor bar with none other than Mr. March sharing glasses of Armagnac. The designer was standing behind the counter, having his second drink that day since the ceremony to Elizabeth. Yet he wasn't the first to be caught by Angela's presence—March was.

"Ah, Miss Saxon," he said with his sophisticated, pretentious Brahman accent. "Won't you come join us?"

"I…um…" Angela took a step forward, Will's eyes smiling at her proudly. "I just wanted to say congratulations to… _you_ , Will."

"Oh, thank you, Angela," the designer said. "I appreciate it."

"Yes, my congratulations are also in order," March said, reminded of the ceremony Elizabeth had told him about.

"Thank you, as well," Will said, bowing his head slightly.

March raised his glass to offer a toast and his blessing, but not before pouring Angela a glass for herself to join in—"Here's to new worlds to conquer."

 _Clink!_

All three tapped their glasses together and drank; Angela could remember the first evening dining with March in his haunted suite, remembering the bittersweet savor of the alcoholic beverage the ghost of the wealthy founder introduced her to.

"I'll drink to that," Will laughed with a smile on his face.

"Ah, yes," March said after downing his first sip. "We are led by the women in our lives, are we not?"

"You know The Countess?"

"Acquainted, yes."

Will looked at both he and Angela, who noticed the distinctively proud look on his face: "I never thought I was the marrying kind, and now I get to call that woman my wife. We are headed to Paris in two days from today for our honeymoon, which…" He paused, putting his glass down, "Angela, I have wanted to speak with you."

"Oh?" The afflicted brunette looked at him and blinked for a few straight moments as he started his proposal.

"The Countess and I are headed to Paris, as I just said, for our honeymoon. I…would like for you to come with us," Will stated.

 _Paris_ , she thought, her feline-like eyes widening slightly, _the city of dreams and…fashion! Wait, why is he asking me?_

"I…wouldn't want to impose…on, uh…you and Elizabeth…t-that is your time together!" she blurted, trying to hide her excitement at the thought.

"But my career is also important," Will replied with a sip of his drink. "I would love to finally have you model what I am to finish tomorrow."

Angela's eyes widened as a big smile swept across her face. Sipping from her glass of Armagnac really got her thinking of how she pictured Paris, the city of lights and the fashion capital of the world, to be—the Eiffel Tower standing mightily over Parisians and tourists taking lots of pictures of the monument; the Arc de Triomphe adorning the western end of Champs-Élysées; the streets flooded with public affection and the bustle of shoppers carrying bags of clothing designed by French fashion brands; fashionable ladies at every square walking with grace and style with every step in their sky-high pumps; romantic men handing roses or offering to pay for the coffee of any lady willing to give them her affection; fashion shows happening almost weekly each season and especially during Fashion Week. It all seemed so surreal.

"I…I will have to think it over…w-what about my work here at the Cortez?" she questioned.

"I am the owner, remember?" Will recalled. "Lachlan isn't going and we were given two free tickets anyways due to my accumulated travel points."

Angela nodded with understanding, seeing the ghost of March raise his glass and smile at the new groom.

"I must commend you," the hotel founder said, "a blended family is terribly progressive."

Angela looked at the two as they spoke.

"I'm very lucky," the designer nodded, "she loves my son very much."

"Oh," March said, suddenly interrupting himself. "I wasn't referring to _your_ son."

Angela could see the apprehension in Will's eyes as he looked at the ghost, who responded to his confusion with a shocking revelation that only brought back memories to the afflicted young woman.

"The Countess had a son," March explained. "Many moons ago, she insisted on having it aborted. I had been ignorant to her pregnancy at the time. She explained that she had an abortion, despite that it failed. It resulted in our son's birth. His name, Bartholomew."

Angela's eyes nearly widened, and her heart sank, remembering the night the extremely deformed baby attacked her and in response, she killed him. Liz had been a witness to the defense killing, but it was also what bound her to the alliance against the Countess in the first place. Remembering his severe cleft palate and mangled teeth and his fetus-like, thin skin with small beady black eyes made her almost want to vomit right then and there. However, March's response made her feel a little better about having slaughtered him.

"Initially, I had my doubts the child was of my own flesh and blood. He was the _ugliest_ child I had ever laid eyes upon," he explained. "He didn't bear any of the distinctive March features…a diamond jaw, strong, piercing eyes…a flair for the dramatic. He had quite a delicate temperament, except when he fed. In that regard, he most certainly took after his mother." He paused. "Elizabeth is a sick creature. He was killed recently and in our final dinner together, she disclosed to me that his corpse has been fully restored and is kept in a glass coffin somewhere in her dwelling." He scoffed. "I'm delighted that little bastard was killed. I could have done it myself, but…it would have been too elementary for me to carry out."

Will sighed and looked at March, finishing his glass of liquor as straightened out the front lapels of his tuxedo, looking at Angela courteously.

"If you'll excuse me," he said, "I'm going to check on Elizabeth. She's been gone for an hour or so. Please let me know by the morning if you are coming to Paris with us. Jeff, the photographer, also has agreed to go and snap some shots."

As he walked away, Angela watched him but was more focused on how disturbingly fixated March's pitch black eyes were on the back of his moving form. Angela remained silent, but his voice and gaze caught her attention; something inside her nearly melted like butter when their gazes met, and he made a dastardly grin in her direction, finishing the rest of his drink.

"Miss Saxon," he said.

"Huh? Uh…y-yes, sir?" Angela asked.

"If you are off to Paris in two days' time, I would be delighted if you could dine with me tomorrow night," he suggested.

"But…wait…"

"No buts," he cut in. "I would be happy to provide for you a _suitable_ meal. Also, I believe there's something yet left to do on your part."

March seemed to fade before her eyes, leaving his empty glass behind as Angela just sat there blankly, resting her hands on the counter as she thought of what he was telling her. What could he possibly have up his sleeve for her to do?


	23. Chapter 22

**_~ chapter twenty-two ~_**

"Are you _insane_?!" Iris screeched with disbelief, seeing Angela packing her bag with Liz sitting and smoking on the edge of his bed in their shared hotel.

"Look, if I go to Paris with the Countess and Will, I'll not only be protecting _him_ ," Angela explained rapidly, folding what looked to be a satin, sweetheart-neckline blue dress in her rather large suitcase, "but I have the chance to finally _do her in_ once and for all!"

"You have a death wish, honey," Liz said, wagging his finger effeminately out at his living best friend. "You've lost your mind."

"Look who's talking," Angela said, trying not to sound rude to her ghostly friend. "You let the Countess kill you after saying things you know would have _put_ you in that position in the first place."

"Angela," Liz replied, looking at his friend sadly, "I would have never found happiness again. I have Tristan now. Living in a world pretending to be okay without him was hell for me! Don't you see? Don't you see it would have also been a matter of time before she killed me anyhow?"

The afflicted brunette shook her head, turning her attention to Iris as she spoke.

"Look, she's the cat," the older woman explained, " _you_ are the mouse. She'll swallow you _whole_!"

Just when Angela folded down the lid on her suitcase to zip it close and lock the fasteners, she felt Iris' hands go to her wrists, the identical temperatures of their skin barely fazing her to get her hold off the luggage—"Don't go."

"Who died and left you God?" the young afflicted woman asked haughtily.

"No one, but you _clearly_ don't know what you're getting yourself into," the older woman answered. "I care about you _too_ much to see you die and be dumped in the Seine."

Angela just looked down before sighing, taking in the secondhand smoke from Liz a few feet away: "I didn't know what I was getting myself into anyways taking a job here. What difference does it make? I'm in the alliance. Ramona is taking her sweet-ass time getting her revenge. Donovan betrayed us, and Liz…" The transvestite widened his Egyptian-styled eyes before Angela spoke again; "you're stuck here…and you, Iris, you don't seem fit for the job…but I am, and I _will_ kill her."

Iris just shook her head with disbelief, but Angela pulled out something she had concealed in the garter of one of her stockings beneath her lacy white, knee-high dress—it was a Glock handgun, and Iris just stared down at it until a voice caught their attention.

"Hey! Give me that!"

Pamela had entered the room, snatching the handgun away from Angela and scowling at her, opening the magazine to check for ammunition.

"I f-found it."

"Bullshit," the police psychic snapped, her blue-gray eyes cold and heavy, "you stole it so you could kill Bloodsucker."

"Partially true," Angela muttered.

"Did you forget?" Pamela asked, tapping the butt of the gun gently against her bosom, "I'm killing John the next time I see him."

"Well, tonight I have my last dinner session with Mr. March before heading to Paris tomorrow," the brunette told her.

Iris cut in—"she's got a death wish. Can you please tell her it's not a good idea for her to go?"

Pamela was quick to disagree—"No."

"Why not?!" Liz cut in. "Unless you see something…else in her future?"

"Don't taunt me," Pamela snapped. "And yes, I think she should go."

Angela's eyebrows just furrowed inward and she shrugged, but Pamela put her hand over her shoulder.

"That bitch is going to die by your hands, not Ramona's," the police psychic said. "Will Drake will survive, and you may finally see your modelling career take off."

"Way to boost her ego," Liz said enviously.

"What's wrong with a bit of encouragement? I literally can see it happening," the police psychic said, walking away toward the door, turning around only to look at Angela's white lacy dress—"by the way, you're dressed very well."

* * *

 _Knock-knock!_

The door opened to the enigmatic, mysteriously sadistic James March soon after Angela knocked on the door to his suite on the seventh floor. A flashy grin streaked across his face, and his pitch black eyes studied her up and down, admiring the dress she had chosen to wear along with skin-contrasting bright pink lipstick and, ironically enough, a diamond chain with a cross pendant. Her dark hair was curled and brushed out for more volume, but when she saw March in his expensive suit, she couldn't help but stare in awe.

"Miss Saxon, welcome!" he said cheerfully, extending his hand and allowing her to take it as he formally escorted her over the threshold and shut the door behind them. "You look marvelous."

"T-Thank you," she replied, his hand still holding hers—though he was a ghost, she could feel his hands were distinctively soft and warm compared to her lower-than-average bodily temperature.

"Come," he continued. "Your reunion awaits."

"Reunion?" Angela questioned, "but I don't—"

Angela's undead heart nearly sunk at the sight before her, grimly illuminated by the light of the candelabra resting on the white cloth-covered table was John, dressed in casual blue jeans and a grey button-up Henley top. He looked cleanly shaven and his raven black hair was neatly combed unlike the last time she had seen him, all rugged and unkempt. The look in his intensely azure eyes was enticing, like something solid was behind them, as if he was finally 'all there' mentally.

However, she could see the major blood vessels in his neck beating in sync with his heartbeat, making her thirst for blood blossom to life as the urge to kill him out of spite, rage, and revenge began to also spring to life. Her thirst intensified, but she saw the look on John's face as well.

He stared at her with intense fright, and the first thing he noticed was the absence of a scar where he had stabbed her in the chest, but that led to him noticing the perfect, flawless pallor of her skin and the spark of eternal vitality in her feline-like blue eyes. She was dressed in an off-white lacy dress with long sleeves and a gathered waist set with a piece of fine satin stitched into place. John found himself even squinting a bit to ensure that what he was seeing was real.

"John, my boy," March suddenly said, cutting through the veil of silence between the two. "Care to explain why this beauty ended up on the right side of your knife?"

The man was dumbfounded—"w-what? I…I thought s-she was dead…"

"Well, surprise, asshole," Angela said spitefully, breaking the silence, "I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me." John just looked at her, who in turn looked at March intently; "say, how soon is dinner? I'm hungry and I need to feed."

 _Clap-clap!_ March clapped his hands with a smile.

"Nonsense," he said rather happily. "I'm pleased to tell you that your dinner is waiting for you right there on the table. I had it specially prepared for you, my dear."

Walking closer to the table with March following her, she looked down and sat only to see a bowl full of what looked to be a soup with bright crimson broth and chicken pieces with vegetables drowning excessively in it. To the upper right of the place setting was a metal-rimmed goblet full of what she could clearly smell as freshly-collected blood. She picked up the spoon and, completely ignoring John's presence at the mid-part of the table from the end she was at, looked at March and waited for an explanation.

"I had Miss Evers prepare for you a modified version of coq du vin. It took thirteen whole hours to prepare, settle, simmer, and…add a more secret ingredient."

"T-Thank you," Angela said with a nod, taking a sip of the blood from the glass; she could feel John's eyes looking at her from the side.

"I-Is that blood?" he asked nervously.

"Indeed it is, John," March said. "I slaughtered and harvested the blood from that contractor at noon today, whom Elizabeth hired to _destroy_ my hotel. It was chilled before being gradually put in along with pinot noir, an ounce per hour. It really gives it a unique hue. Taste it!"

"Uh…o-okay…"

Angela took a piece of chicken soaked in the bloody broth into the spoon, toppled by a chopped carrot and blowing on it before taking her first savor of the soup she was prepared.

"Mmm…"

She took another bite, and March smiled grandly at her, his pitch-black, dark eyes boring holes in her psyche.

"Is it palatable?"

"Yes, it's the best soup I've ever had!" the vampiress exclaimed, taking the whole bowl and drinking the salty, but iron-like taste of the broth in the soup. It was thick and almost creamy in texture, but still satisfied her need to feed. John just looked at her, and then to March.

"I…don't understand," he said, "why is she drinking blood?"

March just gave him a condescending look, cocking up an eyebrow with a slight glare—"because of you, my boy."

There was a silence, but Angela nearly choked on her food when she heard the ear-piercing screech of rage coming from the ghost, seeing John's eyes widen in utter shock.

"YOU TRIED TO KILL HER! I TOLD YOU _NOT_ TO!" March shouted at the top of his lungs and at the apex of his heart. "YOU _IMBECILE_!"

"You told me to kill _anyone_ who broke a commandment, and she killed _two_ people!" John replied forcefully. "What was I _supposed_ to do?!"

"Target someone _else_!" March yelled a bit softer and less screechy. "I had to save Miss Saxon from defenestrating herself last week! I was not going to let the world be robbed of such…" He looked at Angela, who looked at them both complacently with blood dried to her bright pink lips, " _immense_ beauty." He seemed to calm down. "I regret to tell you that I am expressing extreme disappointment in your actions. You are fortunate I am not intending to kill you, or allowing Angela to. She has more reason than I do, to be quite frank."

Angela's feline-like eyes were fixed on the pulsating jugular in John's neck, as if the coq du vin and fresh blood in the goblet weren't enough to satisfy her thirst. She found herself blindly gripping the handle of the knife set neatly beside the plate the soup was set on, struggling to resist the urge to slice his throat open and drink from his fresh supply of blood.

"I have to live the rest of eternity as this…this… _monster_ …" Angela grunted, her hand still gripping the knife painfully, "all because of _you_."

"Miss Saxon," March interrupted calmly, "eat your soup. You said you enjoyed it very much."

"It's better than being trapped in this place forever as a ghost," Angela continued, totally ignoring March, "like your little _friend_ Pamela…or my best friend Liz…her lover…and even the people who I have come to hate which is why they are dead now and roam these halls. I can't even have children one day, and my modelling career? I'd be lucky if this trip to Paris gets me away from people like you, so I can live my dream and be immortalized even more. You got to have all of that; a big job, a wife, children, a dog…a nice house…and I can't have a STITCH of ANY of that because of what you did!"

The two men, especially John, looked down at the bewitchingly beautiful afflicted young woman, seeing her feline-like blue eyes projecting hatred and mercilessness at him as she expressed her mind freely without any regard to March and how he felt about having a peaceful weekly meal together in his suite.

"Someone like you could kill thousands," she continued, gripping the knife even tighter and even raising it to an extent as she raised her voice viciously, "but one thing's for sure, you'll NEVER, EVER find peace! I wish that for you, because THAT is an even BETTER way of getting BACK AT YOU than slicing your throat and drinking you BONE DRY!"

 _Squeaaakkk…_

Angela got up and out of her seat, the antique chair making a distinctive sound as she made her way toward the door, but it was when she did that that she felt a hand grab the one that held the knife from the place setting. Looking down, she saw a rather unexpected sight—March was on his knees, groveling with fierce emotion as he gripped her tightly; he was like a child begging his mother not to leave.

"We have a weekly arrangement! _Please_!" he begged, looking up to her like she was a statue of the Madonna. "Our dinners are my sole comfort in this stygian heap ever since the Countess abandoned me! _PLEASE_! Do not ever forsake me! Please, Miss Saxon!"

She leaned down slightly, looking in his eyes and sighing; "thank Miss Evers for the soup, but I have lost my appetite. I can't stand to be in front of this jackass anymore!"

She took her hand away, looking back at John as she opened the door to his suite—"If I don't kill you, let's hope someone _else_ gets to you!"

With that, she slammed the door shut, tears streaming down her face as she made her way to the elevator to get back to her and Liz's shared room.

* * *

Iris and Liz had sat right in front of the scene of the untimely deaths of an elderly man and his wife, whom Liz's ghost had checked in shortly after Angela went to her weekly dinner with Mr. March. The two had taken their own lives by taking pistols to each other's temples. The woman's wig had even blown off with the force of the bullet that killed her.

"It was their wedding anniversary," Liz said sadly with his hand held effeminately to his chest, "that's what they told me."

"What a shame," Iris said morosely at the scene of the two dead guests.

"Sixty years together, four kids and nine grandchildren," the transvestite said as he lit a cigarette and held it between two manicured fingers. "They've had quite a run together."

"It's sad, yes," Iris said, "really makes you think, doesn't it? How life can take an unexpected turn…like this…"

Out of the corner of one of his heavily made-up, Egyptian-styled eyes, he eyed Iris as she fingered the surface of and took hold of one of the bloodied black pistols still laying near the body of the dead elderly woman. She slowly took hold of the handle, catching the transvestite's full attention and prompting him to go over to Iris as the mature afflicted woman's voice trembled, turning the chamber.

"What's the point of even being here anymore?" she asked herself, sniffling slightly. "Everything stays the same…day in…day out…my son is dead…and now it's just me…"

"No, Iris!" Liz said, seeing his longtime friend about to attempt suicide as she neared the nozzle of the gun toward her mouth. "Don't!"

Iris began to cry—"let me do it!" She sniffled really hard. "I don't want to be here anymore!"

"Well, you're gonna be stuck here for all of eternity unless you get your head strapped on straight before pulling that trigger!" Liz shouted convincingly, pointing out a manicured finger effeminately at Iris, whose blue eyes looked straight at him.

She gave in, nodding at the painful truth as she put the gun back on the bed and sighed, wiping her eyes and nodding.

"I know how this goes…h-how could I…" she asked herself.

"You have so much unfinished business left on your plate," Liz said.

"So didn't you," Iris said. "You never got in touch with your son again. The Countess killed you before you could."

"I know, but you're alive," the ghost of the transvestite said.

"My unfinished business is finished," the older woman interrupted.

Liz just gave her a confused look, shaking his head as he finished off his cigarette and disposed of it by crushing into the base of an old lamp; "I don't get it. I thought you were _reborn_."

"Donovan was my unfinished business," Iris said as Liz joined her, seated on the front of the bed with the decaying bodies of the elderly couple. "Now that he's dead, I have nothing. I thought when he brought me back from the brink of death, it was because he loved me. He doesn't love me. He never did, either, and I don't care if I see him around this hotel anymore."

"Thank god for Pamela," Liz muttered with a sigh, straightening his back and neck to sit primly. "She's…quite a gal."

 _Click…clack…click…clack…_

The sound of eerily-echoed footsteps caught the attention of the two sitting in front of the elderly couple's corpses. Iris was the first to turn her head to see a tall, long-legged female figure vested in a fine, cream-colored lace dress that came to the knees, matching her silky nude tights and white pumps to perfection. Around her neck was a chain of diamonds holding a jeweled cross against her pallid collarbone. Her dark waves were remarkably neat, and her bright pink lips looked slightly smudged and a bit reddened. While they would expect Pamela to make such an entrance, it was Angela, entering the room with the same knife she had been tempted to kill John with at the feast with March.

She took a look at the elderly couple before noticing her two friends sitting on the bed.

"Did you kill them?" Angela asked, seeing the pistol in Iris' hand.

"N-No, I didn't," the older, afflicted woman said.

"They killed themselves," Liz intervened.

"Oh," Angela nodded, "uh…well…I almost killed that bastard tonight…it's not going to be pretty when he's dead."

"Who? John Lowe?" Iris questioned.

"Yes. He was there with March tonight. It took everything I had not to kill him right then and there," the afflicted brunette said, shaking her head and looking down at the blade. "I hope Pamela kills him soon."

"Oh, she will, hun," Liz said optimistically.

"You don't understand," Angela said wearily, her eyes flashing their gleam of eternal vitality. "I'm full of rage. I need to put it somewhere, and I said I would protect Will and Lachlan."

"So…what are you saying?" Iris questioned nervously, sensing the end of the young woman's sanity and sense of humanity.

"I say we kill the bitch now."

Iris sprung from her seat at the edge of the foot of the bed, putting her cold hands on Angela's shoulders and looking up into her eyes fiercely.

"Have you _lost_ your _mind_?!" she exclaimed.

"Stop asking me that. Clearly I have, but you have, too!" she said with wild assertion, tears filling her eyes. "I am TIRED of seeing my friends hurt or DEAD because of her! I will do it myself if I have to! You'd think Ramona has a hand in this, she doesn't!"

"Oh, yes I do…"

It was her voice and presence that took the three's attention. Liz stood from the bed and saw Ramona walk toward the afflicted brunette with her fine, deep complexion shining off flawlessly by the light given off the by light fixtures in the room. She was wearing a patterned dress with a gold costume-style necklace and wedges with leather straps over the toes and ankles. Angela just looked back at her, but not with resentment—she just listened to what she had to say.

"I have wanted revenge on her for twenty years, and now that I have the right people for the job, I can go about it, little missy," she sneered as Angela felt saliva drops seethed in her face.

"Twenty years is a long wait," Angela said dismissively. "Now, I know you had a hard twenty years with your father and all but…geez…even now, you're delaying it even more." She paused, but Ramona's firm, dark eyes remained on her frigidly. "You failed, but Donovan is dead now, and I PROMISED to protect Will and his child from the Countess."

"Hm, it's interesting because he's a designer wanting _you_ to model his clothes," the afflicted woman of color teased rudely.

"That's not why I want to protect him. It's for Lachlan's sake. I barely have spoken to that kid, but I grew up without a father and I know how hard it is without one. That's his ONLY parent!" Angela exclaimed. "I need to do what's right. I will go up there and kill her right now!"

Ramona, Iris and Liz were all in awe of the sudden enthusiasm brought on by rage that the young woman had about ousting the Countess once and for all. Iris, in particular, was mindblown by the fact that she had originally come to work as a maid; now, she was afflicted with the ancient blood virus and during the time she spent there up until that point, had gone through so much, so many changes and transformations. Ramona nodded, agreeing with her and smiling, pulling out a heavy-duty handgun and winking.

"Well, if you're going to kill her, take me and Iris with you," Ramona said excitedly, fastening the magazine of the gun into the holder.

* * *

The Countess was there in the main area of her luxurious penthouse at the peak of the Hotel Cortez with a glass of her luxury beverage—three drops of triple sec in blood harvested from her towheaded adoptees. Tears had flown from her eyes, but it wasn't due to the fact that Lachlan, her stepson, and Will were absent, or the fact that March had allegedly kept her lovers hidden behind the single-inch steel walls built to close off a dead-end hallway in the building. It was none of those.

In fact, it was that she had seen Donovan's decomposing corpse resting at her feet with part of his head missing, rats lingering around his body, while going down to ensure Ramona was exactly in her place locked up in the iron stockade. When she realized she was not in there, she immediately went back up to the penthouse and poured herself her beverage but not before mourning the death of Donovan first. The tears still clung to her face like fresh paint that had not begun to dry yet.

But when she turned her back, she saw the doors of the penthouse flying open. However, it wasn't Will or Lachlan, or even Alex—it was three womanly figures with firearms extended outward as if to shoot. Iris had always kept an arsenal of many types of weapons on hand, hidden away from a major event such like this.

Once the onslaught began, the Countess had no time to react in horror, feeling nothing but the first bullet piercing her side as the overwhelming sound of gunfire wreaked havoc in the penthouse's silence. Smoke began to fill the air, and the bullets still continued to fly, hitting the Countess at every part of her undead being before almost collapsing. The minute she fell on one knee, a bullet pierced her century-old heart, rendering her dead upon impact.

The silence was restored, but Angela looked to Ramona and Iris, who were next to her in a row, with a sense of accomplishment, but it wasn't over yet. Once Ramona had dramatically blown the smoke from the gun's nozzle, she took a rather large knife from her person and held it outwards, staring into a rather morbid reflection as if it were a mirror.

"We ain't done yet," she said. "I want her head."

"Uh…a-are you sure that's necessary?" Angela questioned with uncertainty, "because Will or Lachlan might come up here…"

Ramona slowly turned her head to the afflicted brunette, biting her lower lip angstfully before rolling her eyes—" _you_ set this into motion. It was my plan, but you were the backbone of it. By now, you should know we planned for it."

"Well, hurry then," Iris said, looking behind her as they stood in the open doorway of the penthouse's entrance.

Ramona moved forward, loving the feeling of anticipation as her heels clicked against the fine marble floor, holding the knife in her dominant hand as she saw the lifeless body of the Countess laying there on the stone, draped in black finery with a broken liquor glass on the floor. Once she got to crouching down by Elizabeth's corpse, she grabbed a handful of her white-gold hair and put the blade to the back of her stiffened neck.

"This is for killing my man…burn in hell, you _bitch_!"

 _Pfft!_

After hurling a wad of spit on the corpse, the afflicted woman of color began to saw through the starting point of the beheading process. The back of the neck was not very easy considering it was spinal material and vertebral column bones, but it was easier once getting to the middle of the throat, slicing through to sever the carotid and jugular flawlessly before detaching the head and putting it in a thick plastic bag she had brought to the scene with her.

"Our work is done," Ramona smiled.

"Wait," Iris said, "you forgot something."

"What's that?"

"Do we get something in return? We helped you," the older afflicted woman said.

What caught Angela's eye the most was the gauntlet still attached to the Countess' headless body. Shining with its steel splendor and sparkling majesty, she walked over and grabbed the arm of the body, carefully taking off the gauntlet and showing Ramona, who nodded with approval at her action.

"Yes," she muttered. "You'll do good with that."

"This is my reward," Angela replied proudly, looking at the beautiful, but deadly accessory. "I will accept nothing more or less aside from knowing my duty of protecting Lachlan and Will is fulfilled."

"Well, good riddance," Ramona said to the mutilated, headless corpse of Elizabeth. "Now, I can sleep with peace of mind."

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **So the Countess was killed by the alliance at long last! Now there's a few more orders of business left for Angela, Pamela, and even characters like Iris before the story concludes!**

 **Please leave Reviews, and Favorite and Follow. Thank you for all of your support on my writing; it gives me drive to continue doing what I do.**

 **Stay tuned!**


	24. Chapter 23

**_~ chapter twenty-three ~_**

Angela's reflection looked completely different than it had the last time she stared at herself—she had the same undead vitality sparkling in her feline blue eyes, but there was something more innate and deeper present as she watched herself slowly slip on the Countess' gauntlet. The beautiful glove felt cold to the touch on the outside, while the interior fit snugly around her thin, graceful fingers. No question about it, it had the notorious sharp talon attached to the index finger. When she flicked it out, it nearly frightened her.

Above all, she had conquered the Countess—now her power was in her hand.

 _I have her legacy_ , Angela thought deeply, analyzing the sharp talon at the end of the index finger, _I can't kill mercilessly like she did. I must be just in my judgements on who should die and who should live. Even feeding will be a challenge! What will I do?_ She sighed and shook her head, her breath moving sharply down her windpipe as she stared back into her reflection. _I feel like the reaper. Who'd ever thought I'd end up this way_?

* * *

Having just killed a small cult worshipping a figure resembling the Latin-American Santissima Muerta in the lower portion of a church, John Lowe added another crucial piece to his bizarre collection of body parts reminiscent of the Ten Commandments murders. This was three pairs of ears acquired from the massacred cult members, all strung up and put in one of the bell jars reserved for trophies from the killings.

"Ears," he muttered, "for they heard the calling of false gods."

Then he heard music start to blare, a familiar artist's light-hearted melodies projecting through the armoire's hidden door, reaching his ears along with even more familiar singing:

" _Maybe it's you,_

 _Maybe it's me,_

 _Maybe it's just the constant rhythm of the sea…"_

Making sure his movements were ginger and careful, John slowly moved aside the secret passageway door into the arcane room with all of the trophies of the murders and peeked his gaze out of the room. Strangely enough, it was dark, but the music kept playing. No one seemed present, either, which he found very strange because he heard a voice singing. The record still continued to play, the haunting melody of the deceased singer nearly making his ears bleed:

" _Maybe it's you who brought the caring I'd forgot…_

 _Isn't it nice to talk about the special way_

 _that you smile whenever I'm around…_

 _Rising from the shore, the ocean came…"_

 _Squeaaak-scratch!_

Just when he made his way to the vintage record player, John took the needle off the record, the label vaguely reading Carpenters in the moonlight shining into the room.

 _BAM!_

There went the sound of a gunshot, and the flicking of a lamp—looking in horror after shrieking briefly, John could clearly see Pamela with an angry expression on her face, her blue-gray eyes expressing pure hatred.

"Don't you EVER turn off Karen!" she said through gritted teeth. " _EVER_! You hear me?!"

"Damn it!" John shouted back, holding his shoulder but feeling relief that the bullet she fired didn't hit him. " _Pamela_! What the _hell_ are you doing here?! Why did you shoot at me?!"

"Bitch, don't flatter yourself," Pamela said, standing up with her pale-hued floral maxi skirt surrounding her lower half, holding the gun in her right hand before lifting it and squinting an eye to aim again. "I missed!"

 _BAM!_

The next bullet hit the wall behind him, almost hitting the stand supporting the record player as John cowered and made his way to the entrance of Room 64, which mysteriously locked by a swift movement of the chain.

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?! Are you _CRAZY_?!" he screeched.

"Crazy? _You're_ the crazy one!" Pamela said forcefully but with enough calm to show she wasn't too fazed by his erratic behavior in front of her. "Are you going to explain to me why there's body parts all in that secret room back there?"

John's voice became hostile—"you're the psychic. _You_ tell _me_."

"I'm not God," she retorted. "How the hell could you kill innocent people like that?!"

There was a silence, but once Pamela cocked the handgun, it prompted John to speak.

"Y-You wouldn't understand…I-I didn't either when I first started…" he stammered.

"Well, it doesn't matter, does it? Because now," Pamela said, aiming for a precise location between the eyes, "you will stop!"

 _BAM!_

John dodged the bullet, ducking and allowing it to hit the aged wallpaper behind him as he went to undo the chain on the bolt of the door to Room 64 and run out, only for Pamela to walk closely behind him.

"Solitaire's the only game in town now, buddy!" she shouted. "Time to pay up!"

John felt himself start to run down the hall, but he suddenly stopped in awe, staring at a familiar shadow of a long-legged woman in a white lace dress, heeled pumps, but with a strange appendage sticking from her finger. As she came into clearer view, he could easily make out the flawless visage of Angela, her cat-like eyes giving off a regal air as her dark waves fell around her shoulders. He looked in horror at the talon attached to the cold metal gauntlet she had acquired after killing the Countess with Iris and Ramona, seeing it shining in all of its fatal glory as she nearly raised it up. Pamela, who stood behind John with the nozzle of the gun aimed at the back of his head, held her fire and knew exactly what the talon signified.

"Is she dead?" she asked.

"We killed her," Angela said, keeping her glare projected at John.

"Cool," the police psychic's ghost said, looking at John and diverting her words to him. "So, either you get shot by me, or get drank bone dry by the one you tried to kill. Take your pick."

At that moment, John collapsed to his knees as if begging for mercy; Angela just looked down at him like he were some pathetic mortal begging for the favor of a supreme goddess, pulling at a bottom of her skirt. He pled and begged, tears even forming in his eyes as Angela just stared down at him mercilessly.

"Please! DON'T KILL ME! I'm _sorry_!" he screamed.

"But you tried to kill me," Angela corrected justifiably, "now I have to live like _this_ for an eternity. Why _should_ I spare you?"

John thought for a moment as his whole life flashed before his eyes—Alex, his wife, who had been missing for quite some time; Holden, his eldest son who was abducted five years prior; and Scarlet, the daughter he had abandoned in the pursuit of himself, the killer he was trying to chase as the lead detective. Alex also had abandoned her in order to faithfully serve the Countess and be with Holden. He seemed to stare at the deadly-sharp talon sticking from the gauntlet, alternating sparsely between her intimidating gaze and the shiny metal that was bound to kill him.

"M-My _family_ …y-you know I have a wife…" John explained; Pamela just shook her head in the background, listening to him. "And…my two children…H-Holden is _here_ …I know he is…the Countess took him!"

"What a bullshit sob story," Pamela said, nearly pulling the trigger before Angela's magnetic voice drew her and a cowering John's attention. The talon was drawing nearer to his strong, pronounced jawline as she knelt down and looked at him straight in the eyes.

"You left your wife to do me," the afflicted young woman contradicted, "and your son? Did you even make an _effort_ to find him?" She paused tracing the talon only to see John's tears of fright move down his face. "Do I…even _dare_ ask about your daughter?"

There was a pause—John was officially trapped in her web of revenge, ready to meet his fate by the former Countess' talon slashing his throat with her lips drinking him dry to feed.

"I…" John was speechless.

"You _abandoned_ her, didn't you?" she asked rhetorically, the hatred in her eyes growing stronger.

"He did," Pamela confirmed. "She's been living with her grandma the whole t-"

" _PLEASE_!"

John collapsed before Angela and pled for his life like there were no tomorrow. Knowing full well she had a sensitivity and hatred for parents, especially fathers, who abandoned their children. It was no longer just cries pleading for his life, but it was broken sobs and screaming at her feet, groveling for a second chance at life.

"PLEASE! I'll do anything! DON'T KILL ME!" he groveled. "PLEASE! My family NEEDS me!"

Then, Pamela cut in with a scowl, pointing her gun even straighter ahead—"what the hell are you doing here?"

Angela turned around, and John saw and noticed right off the bat that there was a woman and a child who were extremely familiar to him. The woman had her golden hair piled in an Edwardian bun with strands just barely falling against her plain complexion. Her dress was rather old fashioned but the color of a widow's dress during a funeral. Next to her, holding her hand, was a pale-faced young boy with straw-colored hair and penetrating vitality in his cornflower blue eyes. He also was dressed head to toe in black with an old fashioned style to his ensemble. John knew his saviors had come—Alex and their beloved Holden.

"Get away from him," Alex ordered firmly.

"Bitch, get out! Do you even—"

"Get away! _NOW_!" she roared.

At this fierce command, Pamela lowered her gun, not aiming for anyone but instead seeing John look lovingly at Holden, who stared at his raven-haired father with fear. The man began to speak, and that was when Angela came to her feet with the gauntlet still on her hand at her side—Alex said absolutely nothing even as she noticed it was the Countess' glove.

"C-Come here," he said to Holden, extending his arms toward him. "I won't hurt you. It's Daddy."

Angela took a step back and watched the little afflicted towhead run toward his tearful father, who only cried more as he held him tightly, smelling the same lavender scent as when Alex light scented candles in their home during the five years he was missing. All those years of grief spent, in and out of psychotic breaks, seeing his family crumble into pieces was enough to make him break down with his son's arms finally around him. Pamela also watched, putting the gun to her side and sighing breathlessly at the sight of father and son reuniting.

"I c-can't tell you how long I-I've waited for this…" John cried, letting Holden go loosely so he could look at his adorably cherubic, but deathly pale face.

"Five years," the boy replied—Angela felt a tear develop in her eye corner hearing his small voice speak to him.

"You haven't changed a bit, Holden," he whined happily.

"He'll stay that way, too," Alex said, stepping a bit forward and closer to Angela. John just looked up at her plain face, the first thing catching his attention being the bright red lipstick she had to wear as instructed by the Countess.

"Alex?" he asked. "I…don't understand."

"I tore up the divorce forms."

Pamela and Angela just shifted glances at each other, communicating nonverbally with disbelief at this strange turn of events that was rather unexpected. John stood to his feet, holding his son in his arms and extending a hand to feel the smooth fabric of her sleeve.

"You…did?"

"I know you have a lot of questions," Alex said to him, looking at him and then Holden. "I made my choice to be with Holden. I didn't tell you because I was afraid you would say something to change my mind. I don't regret my decision. We do have another child."

John looked at his wife and then to Angela, whose hate-filled, furious eyes turned soft at his next words; "I haven't forgotten about Scarlett."

"All this time, you've seen her twice," Alex recalled. "She told me, but how many times have you been to visit Grandma?"

"N-No excuses," John replied sadly, getting tearful again as he put his hands together in front of his face. "We abandoned her. W-We're the world's worst parents!"

"I'll say," Angela cut in, raising the talon to meet the lacey top part of the dress she wore to their reunion and dinner with March. Alex just looked at her, finally breaking her silence.

"Is that… _her_ glove?"

"Yes," the afflicted brunette said.

"D-Did she turn you?"

"That doesn't matter, does it?" Angela said calmly. "You coming here…changed my mind."

Pamela was not happy about this—"are you _crazy_?! Angela!"

"Shut up, Pamela. I've heard _enough_ from you. We _all_ have."

The ghost's jaw just dropped, and her gun nearly dropped to the floor; the afflicted's tone struck her more silent than a mouse footing through a kitchen in search for food. In fact she felt like she had been punched square in the face. Alex and John listened to Angela, while Holden just stared off obliviously into space.

"I won't kill you," Angela dictated.

John looked at his wife with relief, holding her with his free arm, but looking at the afflicted brunette once more with fright in his eyes—Alex was just confused but yet at the same time was also intimidated.

"I'm not just excusing you. What you did was unforgivable," Angela continued, "but I am sparing you for the sake of your children. I know myself that not having the chance at a real family with a real mother and _father_ is something _NO_ child should ever have to go through even if one is living for eternity. I'll only spare you under two conditions."

"Which are…" John trailed off, Alex looking on with confusion.

"One, the most important, be _parents_ to your children, especially Scarlet. Never leave her again," Angela ordered. "Second is that…" She mustered up the ferocity in her voice to give her second condition, focusing on John for the most part; "if I EVER see you in the Hotel Cortez _EVER_ again, I will kill not only _you_ , but your _whole family_! That is a promise!" She paused, seeing the fear in her eyes. "I can't forgive you for what you've done, but the least I can do is be fair for your children."

The hallway outside Room 64 was struck with utter silence, and Alex nodded, seeing that Angela now had the same power and influence of the Countess, even wearing her notorious taloned glove. Her feline-blue eyes told them that she was not screwing around, and John agreed with a nod.

"I promise."

"Now _go_. Leave!" Angela ordered, pointing the talon on the glove outwards. "Never to return again!"

As the three family members made their way down the hall, Alex and John didn't even so much as look back at the afflicted brunette with newfound power and influence who threatened them harshly if she were to ever see them again in the Hotel Cortez. However, Holden seemed to stare back at her with his sparkling cornflower-blue eyes with gratitude that his eternally-childlike self couldn't comprehend. Angela interpreted his gaze as if to say ' _thank you for not killing my father_."

Pamela, still with the gun in hand, walked over to Angela and sighed, shaking her head with disagreement and biting her lower lip.

"Why the _hell_ couldn't you just let me shoot him?!" the police psychic asked. "He _killed_ all those people!"

"Not anymore he won't, not if he can't put his trophies back in Room 64," she argued justly. "If he comes back, you heard what I said I'd do."

"But are you—"

"Pamela," Angela reasoned, "your way isn't always the _right_ way. I did it for his kids! I grew up without a father. There's no reason his daughter and son have to live the rest of their lives without one, too. How would you feel if that were your father?"

"My father was a pain in the ass," the police psychic said, "so I wouldn't have cared any less."

"I took this glove from the most corrupt bitch I had ever met or heard about," Angela said, raising it to show her. "I vowed to myself tonight that I would be just in who I kill and who I let live. Justice is subjective. Mine is right, and I will continue at it for the rest of time."

Shaking her head, Pamela left the scene with Angela just watching her approach the elevator. Once she pressed the button, the door opened and she got in, letting it take her down to the second floor. As soon as she stepped out of the lift, Pamela made her way to the bar, which had a balcony overlooking the floor of the extravagant lobby. She leaned down and looked down below to see the newly-reunited Lowe family leaving the hotel. Holden was the first to notice her presence above them, while John turned his eyes upward. Pamela could see his eyes widening up at her as the three briefly stopped.

"KEEP WALKING!" the police psychic shrieked sharply. "If Angela doesn't kill you, I will! I will avenge all of those people you've killed!"

"Uh…" Alex had a confused look on her face as she noticed John's nervousness, "what is she talking about?"

John's response was shockingly nonchalant—"let's just get out of here. She's always been a lunatic."

Pamela was enraged at this, and she gripped her hands on the balcony's railing, screaming her rage out to the family leaving the hotel.

"HOW DARE YOU?! I WARNED YOU!" she screamed. "I'M _NOT_ CRAZY! YOU'RE A _KILLER_ , JOHN!" She stopped to take a breath, still hysterical with her screaming that nearly shook the hotel from the ground up. "I _SWEAR_ TO GOD IN HEAVEN, I WILL _KILL_ YOU!"

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **Thanks again for reading, guys! This isn't the end, as the season itself isn't even over yet. I can't wait for the next episode!**

 **Please leave a nice Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow!**


	25. Chapter 24

**_~ chapter twenty-four ~_**

Sparing John's life was a hefty decision for Angela to make, but the following morning, she continued work like usual, just remembering bits and pieces of what happened aside from the clearly recalled promise to kill him if she ever crossed paths with him again. Angela looked down at the counter's smooth wood finish as she also recalled another highlight from the night before—killing the Countess.

She now had her gauntlet, inheriting it as almost heir to her throne. Angela now kept it with her at all times, feeling like an angel of mercy or the female reaper whenever she put it on. It hadn't been put into full use just yet, but when she looked up at the entrance of the hotel, her feline-blue eyes widened to the sight of two women and one man.

"H-Hello, welcome to the Hotel Cortez," she greeted casually. "Do you have a reservation?"

There was no answer, but Angela took the silence in the lobby as an opportunity to analyze each of the three incoming hotel guests. The first she focused on was quite unusual but extremely beautiful, but also taller than the other two with her. Standing approximately five-foot-nine, she had icy white skin that was flawless enough for Angela to believe she too was afflicted with the blood virus. However, this was not the case, because she could see her jugular bursting to life with mortal blood rushing through it. Another thing Angela noticed was the woman's hair, which was platinum in color but with snow white and silvery strands scattered throughout. It was very hard to tell how old she was between the strange hair color and the flawlessness of her sculpted, graceful face that looked as though it were carved out of marble by Michelangelo or some other great artist. Her outfit was the one thing that made Angela cringe, as it was composed of a dress-like tunic in navy blue over a white garment fastened with Nordic-styled brooches on the side and just under the buxom breasts it accentuated. Hanging from her neck were what looked to be amulets or talismans, but Angela was too enthralled by her appearance to actually take time and make out what they were.

The other woman in the group of three was more normal-looking, but again, her choice of fashion made Angela cringe with disgust. In fact, this one reminded her of Pamela and her gaudy, 70s-style fashion—this woman was braless under a green tank top and shawl with a wide leather belt and a long maxi skirt with enough flowers to fill a garden. She wore layered necklaces with polished, semi-precious gemstones and even one with a plain cross about measuring about a few millimeters. Her face reminded her of an ethereal fairy plucked out of the world's most mystical woods with mysterious blue eyes showing naivety and wonder at her surroundings. Her golden blonde hair was very wavy and looked as though it hadn't been brushed in a week, adding to the raw bohemian style the woman bore.

The last guest she noticed actually humored her in a way—Angela noticed his gait as different from a rest, having a little spring in his step as a child of ten years old would. She saw he was rather handsome with a sculpted face from the cheekbones up, but he was shorter in stature than the other two women at about five-seven. He was rather lanky and thin, reminding Angela of the typical 'string-bean' cartoon character. This man had dark blond hair hidden under a New York Yankees baseball cap, but beneath the front brim she could easily notice what looked to be a burn scar near his eyebrow. His most distinguishing feature was his hands—Angela was nearly horrified at the severe deformity in them, seeing only two digits on each with a deep cleft in each palm.

A soft, but strong voice finally spoke; it was the tall, icy-white woman looking down at her with her stormy gray eyes that were more benevolent than menacing: "yes, we do."

That was when Angela nodded and took out the reservation book, looking down at a name written down with the names of several other guests who have long since checked out—"Darling? I-Is that the name?"

"Yes," the woman said. "That's our name."

"Hm, interesting," Angela said, looking to the shorter-than-average man at her side and seeing his jugular beating like a heart in his throat with the urge to slice it open and drink from it being controlled by her desire for peaceful living without killing people.

"I'm Chase," she saw the man say, reading his lips while distracted by his pulsing vein. The way he said it caught her attention, knowing full well something was wrong with him. _Poor guy_ , she thought.

"Uh…" Angela began nervously, "h-hi, Chase."

"I put in a deposit for $600. You have a record of it, right?" the woman with white hair asked.

"Oh uh," Angela began nervously, looking down at the checkmark next to the deposit with the check stapled into the page, "yes, ma'am."

There was an awkward silence—struck by her beauty and the pulsing vein in Chase's throat, she was almost in a trance until the woman spoke again.

"Well, will you give us the keys?" she finally asked, sounding a little impatient.

"Uh…ma'am?" Angela asked, "c-can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," she replied, straightening her back and looking taller and more authoritative as if she were some divine queen, "what is it?"

Angela looked up at her with her feline-blue eyes and focused on her unusual hair color—"I don't want to sound rude, but…your hair…uh, is it dyed?"

The woman just laughed, but Chase and the other woman also giggled, but the white-haired woman replied with a snicker: "I always laugh when people ask that!" Her laugh faded to a simple chuckle. "But to answer your question, no. It's not. It's all natural."

"Yeah," the other woman said with a proud smile and a heavy Southern accent. "Julie got beautiful hair."

Angela took note of the accent and smirked slyly—"you're not from around here, are you?"

"No," the tall woman, whose name was revealed to be Julie, answered, "we came from New Orleans."

Angela reached to the key rack behind her and pulled off the key to Room 66, which neighbored the hallowed room once belonging to James March, her ghostly friend. She listened to the three talk to her, pretending to be occupied with their reservation arrangements.

"We're just married," the Southern woman said with a clearly happy tone.

"I love you, Misty," the man said in his childish excitement; Angela could even hear him kissing her on the cheek.

"I love you, too, Chase," the woman said.

"Wait," Angela said, turning around, "why are you with them? It's their honeymoon, right?"

"So?" Julie asked.

"But…married couples…are alone on their honeymoon," Angela said with a brief pause. "Right?"

Julie leaned in almost intimidatingly, looking into her eyes as though she was a mouse beneath her shoe, inferior to the blow of heavy boots crushing her—"Chase never leaves without me. He is my brother and needs me."

 _Attached much, lady?_ Angela asked herself in her head. Then, she could suddenly hear the woman's voice in her head; looking up in shock, she realized that Julie was reading her mind and speaking to her telepathically.

 _You don't understand,_ Julie said telepathically with an intent look on her face that denoted she was getting impatient and was not happy _, he is borderline mentally challenged as well as disabled, and all our lives, he has needed me. I trust Misty, but not enough for them to be alone. Not just yet. So please, give us our keys and show us to our room._

"Get out of my head," Angela said aloud, "and maybe I _will_ show you to Room 66."

Suddenly, Angela felt a strange tingle in her head as Julie held out on of her icy white hands palm up as if to collect something. Realizing she was holding their keys, she placed it in Julie's hand, but before they could walk off to the elevator, Angela came out from behind the counter and led the way to the elevator, accompanying them on the lift up to the floor Room 66 was on.

She unlocked the door and opened it for them, stepping in first only to see Misty, the bohemian woman with the shawl, bring the garment closer to her as well as the satchel-style bag on her side. Julie just walked in, but Chase went further by hopping on the bed backwards and getting comfortable. Angela looked at the three, making sure they seemed comfortable, but a spoken Southern accent caught her attention.

"I got vibes," she said.

"What?" Angela scoffed.

"I got vibes," Misty repeated with an uncertain look of horror on her face. "Real bad. Do you feel 'em, Julie?"

The icy-white woman closed her eyes and seemed to be putting out her hands, taking in a sharp, deep breath only to have it slowly come out in exhalation as her stormy orbs reopened and looked around, shaking her head and painfully looking at an oblivious Chase on the bed.

"Oh yeah," Julie grunted. "I…don't feel right in here…uh…" She looked down at Angela. "C-Can we get another room? Please?"

Angela shook her head—"Sorry, I can't do that."

"Why?" Julie asked suspiciously.

"Can we get a refund? Maybe get 'nother hotel?" Misty offered. "I don't feel so good."

"No refunds." Angela's response was short, brief, and to-the-point, her tone firm and fair-sounding as to not reveal her frustration with the guests.

"Give us another room," Julie asked, "please? I'm asking nicely."

"I can't," Angela responded fearlessly, "because we are almost at full capacity."

Julie shook her head—"no you're not. I'm asking you one more time," she replied more firmly, "give us another room _now_."

Angela felt the tingle in her head again, nodding and smiling, twisting whatever psychological techniques this woman was using to get her way: "okay, ma'am. I can get you another room, but you'll have to wait until tonight. We're at full capacity. I can't give you one now, but I will definitely switch you guys out by tonight. I have a guest checking out at a set time. Nine o'clock sharp." The three listened to Angela's voice, even Julie, who had tried to bend her will to her own; "until then, I'll be downstairs. Local calls are free, there are fluffy towels in the bathroom, there's a bar on the second floor my best friend serves at, and the ice machine is down the hall if you need a quick refresher."

* * *

As Angela got off the elevator from welcoming the newlyweds and the man's sister up to Room 66, she saw Liz's ghost materialize and wave at her, walking closer while wearing a mustard yellow dress, dangly gold costume earrings with a matching necklace, and spike-heeled pumps with a distinctive violet-colored smoky eye done to beautify him even more. Liz also looked rather excited, smiling at Angela as she walked toward him with a bewildered look on her face.

"Why are _you_ so happy?" she questioned.

"Do you even know who you just let check into this hotel?" the transvestite asked.

"Uh…just a…" Angela thought for a moment before answering, "an Amazon woman with a hippy who married a freak show performer. Why?"

Liz scoffed and straightened his back in a rather effeminate way; "hush, you! How can you talk about them like that?"

"I don't understand," Angela said, "get to the point."

"They're _witches_!" Liz said with excitement, clapping his manicured hands and smiling grandly.

Angela could help but burst out laughing: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA…"

"It's true!" Liz said. "I read about them in the newspaper!"

"HAHAHA! WOW! You'll believe anything!" Angela exclaimed. "Are you crazy? Witches aren't real! All that…hocus-pocus shit!"

Liz gave her a stern look, shaking his head and sighing; Angela began to listen as soon as he started to talk again.

"Oh! It's this amazing story," he explained. "There's a whole gaggle of them. They're a bona fide coven in New Orleans descended from Salem. When I read the paper two years ago, they even revealed a bloodline from Europe had joined them earlier that year."

Angela's eyes narrowed, shaking her head. "You're shitting me."

"I'm not," Liz said. "I think it was a girl descended from…oh, I don't know, Switzerland, Spain, Sweden, or _whatever_! But anyways, they wear chic black, and they do spells…oh! It's wonderful what they do!"

"I don't believe it," Angela said. "Say, are you sure they're not some Satanic freaks who just try to scare people?"

"Goodness, no," Liz said, pointing his finger. "In fact, if you say that to them, that's actually ignorant and offensive. They're born that way. Each witch is part of an ancient bloodline."

"Blood, huh?" the afflicted brunette asked. "Well, speaking of which, I have needed to feed for a little bit now. I'm thinking of feeding off that man who came with those two—"

"DON'T!" Liz warned.

"Why? He's too mentally deficient to even function. I feel bad, it's that woman's husband, but geez," Angela said, "he's a good meal, at least. Would a witch or, uh, warlock's blood keep me strong?"

"Don't you dare!" Liz spat. "That is the Supreme's brother! Julie is like a warrior! She'll either run you with a sword or…her _ice_ …"

"Oh, c'mon," Angela said doubtfully, "you're _still_ on this? She's _not_ a witch! _None_ of them are. It's make-believe."

Liz lit a cigarette and dragged—"fine. Don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

 _7:34 PM_

Misty paced around the suite tensely, holding her small cross pendant in a fisted clutch as the TV's news channel made the silence in the room a bit more bearable. However, she was unable to shake off the feeling of dread the entire three hours they had spent there since checking in. Her ethereal, dark blue eyes looked over at her new sister in-law, who was sitting down at the foot of the largest bed where Chase napped in oblivious comfort atop the aged comforter. Julie just seemed to stare off into space, almost as if in a trance, with her back fully erect and the Nordic-style brooches shining in the light of the room.

"Julie…"

The tall, icy-white woman looked at Misty, who stood there with her shawl tightly wrapped around her, hearing her mutter. She said nothing, but in fact listened for anything else she had to say.

"Is it nine yet?"

"No."

"That girl said nine," Misty repeated, "that we be gettin' a new room. I hope it ain't got bad vibes like this one…"

Chase, who had been napping for the past half hour, stirred and rubbed his eyes wearily with the more solid part of his cleft, split hands. His childlike gray eyes looked around, and the first thing he did was smile at Misty, not even aware that she was uptight and tense from the rather hallowed, craven environment in which they checked into.

"Misty!" he exclaimed happily, his enthusiasm misplaced in a rather inappropriate situation. "Did the food come? I want ice cream! But I want my burger first…and my—"

"Chase," Julie cut in, looking back at her newly awakened brother, "calm down. Okay?"

"I'm sorry, Julie," he replied rather calmly, "I'm hungry."

"I am, too. I'm dying for honey mead, but…I don't think—"

 _Knock-knock!_

Julie rose from the edge of the bed rather slowly, but both she and Misty were beat to the door by Chase, who, thinking it was room service coming to bring them their dinner and his long-awaited bowl of ice cream for dessert, bolted to the door and opened it. With a smile on his face, he saw Angela, whose dark, wavy locks were tied back in a ponytail holder to reveal her blank expression.

"Hi! You're from downstairs! Did you bring us food?"

 _SLICE!_

Within moments of him finishing his sentence, Chase found himself choking excessively and holding his deformed hands to keep the blood escaping from a freshly-cut wound across his throat. His gagging turned to blood-curdling screams for mercy and help from Misty and Julie, who immediately noticed Angela push him to the floor with full force and attach her hungry lips to his wound to collect all of the fresh blood that spilled from his major blood vessels. Not surprisingly, she had afflicted the wound with the razor-sharp talon of the Countess' gauntlet.

"HEEElllppppp…..JUUULLIiiee…"

Chase's screams grew weaker, but Julie and Misty worked together in getting her off their beloved family member, who was now pale and weak as he started to die on the floor of the hotel suite. Misty gripped Angela's dark chocolate ponytail, making her scream in agony before Julie got every bit of anger and pent-up fury out of her system by holding out her hand and telekinetically pulling her off the floor and pushing her out the suite door so fast and so hard that by the time Angela saw the door shut by the same means, she felt a crack in her back and in the back of her head. The agony from the impact was unbearable, but she knew that she had gotten nourishment—but Chase was way worse off in the room as Julie screamed and cried over Chase, whose head rested in a sobbing Misty's lap. Her maxi skirt was covered in his blood, but she did not care.

"Don't die on me! Chase!" Misty screamed, caressing his pallid, weakened face. "NO!"

"Chase, _please_ …" Julie said under a broken sob, holding out her hands toward his neck and holding them over the wound, getting her pale white hands covered in blood as she concentrated. "Misty…if this doesn't work—"

"It will! I'll b-bring 'im to life!" Misty said with all her might.

Before Julie knew it, her concentration manifested in the form of healing her brother's wound. The major arteries mended and meshed together as though his throat had never been slashed; any muscle that was damaged from the talon came together like a weave in a loom; as his skin repaired and was restored by her amazing power, he opened his gray eyes a little wider and put one of his still-bloodied, deformed hands to his throat, but not before feeling Misty's lips touch his forehead.

"Chase," she smiled sadly, "y-you're alive!"

"W-Where's my ice cream! Do I still have blood?!" the man exclaimed, asking his sister.

"Shh, shh," Julie lulled, holding her newly-revived brother in her arms and tearfully smiling with pride at what she had done. "You're alright, Chase. It's okay…"

Misty and Julie shared a group hug with Chase on the blood-soaked carpet of the hotel suite. His sister began rubbing his head and smiling with joy at the fact that she had saved him from the edge of the brink of death with the help of her new sister in-law. His baseball cap slid off onto the soiled carpet as she did so, and when Julie finally opened her eyes, she looked up and let Chase go, seeing the figure of a woman with strawberry-blonde hair, gaudy vintage jewelry with an even gaudier open shawl top with flower decals sewn into canary yellow fabric. Beneath this garment was a lace crop top met at the waist by the elastic band of loose, light brown palazzo pants. Misty also looked at the woman, admiring her sense of style but feeling a chill run down her spine as her blue-gray eyes looked back at her solemnly.

"W-Who're you?" Misty asked; Julie had a look of horror on her face, Chase still in her arms as the female replied.

"Who are _you_?" she asked in return.

"You're dead," Julie blurted, noticing right off the bat what her state of life was. "What is your name?"

"Pamela," the woman's ghost answered.

"W-Why are you here?"

"To tell you to leave," Pamela said haughtily.

"B-But my ice cream!" Chase exclaimed.

Pamela simply rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest—"kid, there's enough ice cream in the world to make a fat lady sing! Leave this hotel! For your safety!"

"We're gonna," Misty said, standing up and getting a little bit of Chase's blood on her boots from the carpet; she was distracted by the gaudy 70s-style ensemble she was wearing. "W-We need our deposit back."

"Say no more."

Pamela held out a thin, crisp white envelope and held it out to the ethereal, earthy woman, who held her hand out to collect what was given to her. Opening the unsealed flap, she could see the check written by Julie for $600, which had been for their security deposit during their stay in the Hotel Cortez. Julie's eyes widened, knowing exactly what it was as she helped the shorter Chase to his feet to stand steadily—it was only then that Pamela was slightly intimidated by the woman's height of five-nine when she herself was only five-two.

"How did you get this?" the icy-white woman asked. "Y-You can't get a refund here."

"I stole it from downstairs. I saw you were in trouble," Pamela explained.

"You… _saw_?" Julie questioned.

"Yes."

"Hm…a psychic, huh?"

"Yup," Pamela said, "I know who you guys are."

The tall, icy-haired woman nodded ceremoniously and held out her hand to shake Pamela's, but withdrew it as she remembered her ghostly state: "Julie Darling."

"I'm Chase," the newly-revived man said with a smirk, which Pamela returned kindly. "This is my wife, Misty. We're on our honeymoon. We just married."

"I know."

"You know?" Chase asked. "How?"

"I'm like your sister," Pamela said.

"You even got _that_ right!" Julie smiled.

"Of course I do. Then again, you're Supreme of the Salem descendants," the police psychic's ghost said. "How have things been since I was expelled?"

Julie's stormy gray eyes widened in shock, relating to her; "expelled?"

"Yeah. I was sent there for a year by my mother because she wanted to get rid of me," Pamela explained with a squirm of distaste. "I couldn't do anything except divination. I've always been psychic. The gift chose me, not the other way around."

Julie nodded with understanding, narrowing her beige-colored eyebrows inward as she adjusted one of the Nordic-style brooches adorning the front of her Scandinavian tunic.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Julie said. "If it makes you feel any better, I was kicked out before being welcomed back in again along with my brother. We met a relative of ours in the process."

Pamela just looked at her, seeing her rather unusual garb—the long, navy blue tunic that resembled a dress that was pinned at the top with brooches. The tall woman's buxom breasts were accentuated by the empire waistline of the dress, and hints of a white undershirt showed through the neckline along with what looked to be an intricate tattoo on the upper side of her chest.

"Y-You're not a Salem descendent, are you?" the police psychic asked. "H-How are you the Supreme?"

"Beats me," Julie said with a shrug. "I was chosen."

"Julie's real powerful," Misty said with a proud smile. "She's been takin' real good care of us. She's made lots of changes to the academy. No more wearin' black, and the school ain't for just young ladies. We've welcomed men, too."

"Sounds like you're doing well there," Pamela said with approval. "But I suggest you go back. Now. Take this money back, and never again come to the Hotel Cortez."

"Gee," Julie smiled with gratitude, "if I could hug you, I would. Thank you very much for saving our lives."

"It's nothing," Pamela replied.

Chase looked at Pamela, but his voice caught the attention of his sister instead. His clothing was covered in reddish-brown, dried blood, and he even let out a shiver of fear: "wait, what will we say to Eleonora and Zoe and Cordelia and—"

"We won't say anything," Julie ordered, looking into her brother's eyes. "We won't tell them."

"We can't just forget it happened!" Misty exclaimed. "Chase almost died, Julie!"

"Misty," the Supreme said, almost getting tunnel vision from the intense but calm-faced focus on her new sister in-law. "Kneel." She looked to Chase, using the mind-bending power of concilium to make him do as she said. "Kneel."

Both kneeled on their knees in front of Julie as if they were in church on prayer benches, but what Julie did was take a hand to each of their foreheads and concentrate, erasing their memories of the tragic event that nearly killed Chase while reciting an eerie incantation:

" _Benedicite mente et corde,_

 _Cogitationes eorum dolore discedere._

 _Haec memoria cursum suum,_

 _Nunc eu eicerent illum et vim._

 _His verbis constantes effecti arbitror mortuis_ …"

When the incantation was recited, Chase and Misty looked at each other with confusion. Noticing the dried blood on the floor of the hotel room, Chase gasped and stood up, looking at Julie and Misty with fright as he went to go hug his wife.

"Let's get out of here!" he exclaimed. "There's blood!"

"I got vibes…" she reiterated from earlier, holding her husband in an embrace with the check in the envelope still in her hand. "Real bad."

"Come," Julie ordered, turning around to see that Pamela's ghost had vanished from the realm of manifestation. "Let's leave."

* * *

The Lowes had finally reunited—Alex, Holden, Scarlet, and John all were under the same roof and trying to readjust to life outside of the hotel. John had some major adjustments to make, especially after killing all of those people under psychotic breaks and the grave promise he had made Angela. If he were to even think of the Hotel Cortez, he knew of the grave consequences she would reprimand him with; the death of not only him, but his entire family. If it weren't to be her who kills him, it would be Pamela's ghost avenging the people he murdered while masquerading as a bona-fide detective.

When they entered their home the first night in nearly forever, Scarlet was the first to step in the door with Alex and Holden hand-in-hand behind her. John was the last to come in and he shut the door. He glanced blankly over at his afflicted wife and son, met at eye level by her crouching.

"Do you remember where your room is?" she asked her son.

When he shook his head with that same eerie, blank stare in his eyes, she stood to her feet and picked him up: "I'll take you."

Scarlet had unslung the backpack full of necessities she had taken from her stay at her grandmother's house, putting it on the sofa as John's voice caught her attention. He was approaching the small fruit bowl in the dining room and picked up an apple.

"Hey, uh…you want something to eat?" he asked light-heartedly, trying to lighten the mood. "How about some fruit?"

Scarlet looked behind her and shook her head with disgust: "It's rotten."

Realizing this, John dropped the apple back in with the rest of the decaying fruit in the bowl, even taking the bowl to the kitchen's trash can to throw them away. Scarlet's voice caught his attention as he saw her come into the kitchen as he was rinsing out the dirtied fruit bowl, the faucet running cool, cleansing water inside the hollow of it.

"How long has it been since we were home?"

" _Too_ long," John answered solemnly, turning off the faucet and sighing. "Now that we have Holden, we will be a family again."

"How are you going to explain this to grandma?" the little blonde-haired girl asked. "He looks like a baby. Holden is supposed to be _older_ than me."

"Grandma doesn't have to know," he replied. "This is our secret. As long as they take their medicine, they'll be healthy."

"You mean _drink blood_?" Scarlet asked with a mixture of fear and sarcasm in her voice. "I-Is that what happened to the dog? Are they going to eat _me_ , too?!"

"Scarlet, you'll always be safe," John said, looking down at her and hugging her, patting her back and sighing. "Of course not. They won't eat you."

"But…how will they eat?" the girl questioned. "They can't kill people! That's bad."

"It's nothing _you_ have to worry about," John replied, his intensely azure eyes looking down at his daughters almost eerily. "I have that all taken care of."

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **Okay, so after the last episode aired, I was really upset that Queenie was killed. No, literally, I was SO mad!**

 **I know I said this story would not be connected/affiliated with my AHS AU series with Britta, Elina, Julie, Chase, etc...but I changed my mind! I figured that it would be appropriate and I know some of you guys really liked the twins, so...I brought them back for this brief appearance!**

 **So guys, what do you think? Please leave a Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow! Thanks so much for the continued support!**


	26. Chapter 25

Her eyes were weary and heavy on her eyeballs as she struggled to open them, and when she finally did, Angela saw herself lying on what looked to be a soiled cot with strange brown and black stained mottled on the cover sheet. She was extremely sluggish but even slightly euphoric, but the China White was to blame because Sally had been sitting over her. Angela even felt herself rolling her eyes involuntarily, but it was a male voice in the room that seemed to make her burst with life, even jolting up from the dirtied cot and seeing March paced around slowly in black slacks, a button-up dress shirt, and a pair of fine black slacks held up with even blacker suspenders. Beneath the collar of his shirt was a red ascot the color of blood, hinting at the fact that his throat was still slit in his ghostly form.

"Ah, Miss Saxon!" he exclaimed as he moved toward the bed and took her pallid, cold hand to kiss the top of it with an extended smooch to her skin. "Welcome back to the tangible world! Are you up to par, dear?"

"Uh…w-what?" She looked to Sally with confusion, seeing a stack of ash about to fall from the lit end of her cigarette as she stumbled to sit up in the cot. "W-What are you doing?"

"Relax," the addict droned wearily, "you're high, not dead."

"What do you mean? W-Where is that Viking bitch?" Angela wondered.

"Ah, the one with a flair for the dark arts?" March asked rhetorically.

"Whatever," the afflicted brunette responded weakly. "She tossed me out of the room like a ragdoll. I think I broke a couple of things."

"Just three cracked vertebrae and a bit of a bump on your head," Sally said. "I gave you some China White to take the pain away. You're fine. Knowing your affliction, you heal within days."

"Oh…" Angela looked down at her clothing, still soaked with the blood of the warlock whose throat she'd slit, while March just looked on and stopped pacing. He had a strange smile on his face, directing it at the afflicted.

"You tried to feed from that cretin of a warlock," March guessed.

"I thought drinking their blood would make me stronger," Angela said, "but I was dead wrong. I feel worse now, actually. He tasted weird, too."

"Like what, my dear?" March questioned.

"Like…mustard mixed with…uh, something else…" the afflicted brunette said as she took out her dark chocolate waves from her ponytail. "And I HATE mustard!"

"I'm sure there'll be others subject to your feedings, Miss Saxon," he said encouragingly, looking over at Sally who had just lit a fresh cigarette. "More opium for the lady?"

Before Sally could fill the very used syringe up with more China White, Angela waved her hand and shook her head, rejecting it: "no."

"Just let me do it," Sally said. "Don't complain."

"I don't want that shit in—"

 _Pinch…_

"Ow!"

Before she could fully reject it, Sally forced the needle full of heroin into the plumpest vein in the crease of her arm. Angela could feel the injection run through her bloodstream, making her feel a bit too calm for words to describe. There was a rush, a high beyond all belief, a high that was much greater than throwing up in her teens, a high greater than marijuana. In fact, this felt like Nirvana, and she wanted to just sleep right then and there. March tapped her arm affectionately and smiled.

"Ah, my dear," he said softly, "rest up. You need to regain your strength."

When he turned on his feet, he left the mysterious, darkened room, fading completely from sight. Sally looked down at her and smiled with a nod. Angela shook her head and sniffled slightly.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Still shitty," Angela replied.

"Lucky for you," the addict's ghost said as she dragged on her cigarette, "I know _every single_ vein and artery in the human body."

"Uh…" Now, Angela was confused and groggier from the extra dose of opium. "W- _What_?"

"They don't call me Hypodermic Sally for nothing," Sally smirked, tapping the ash off her cigarette. "This kid I grew up with, Juan Moacanda…I got good memories with him. I gave him his first hand job." She smirked and chuckled nostalgically. "We were from the Valley. Anyway, he went on to become this giant drug dealer. His stuff was _the shit_. I used to sell it for him. Made a lot of good friends, you know? It was always, 'I'm hurting, Sally,' or, 'can you hook me up, Sally?' All except for Nick Harley and Tina Black. They were good!" Her voice was emphatic, and Angela's full attention was on her. "But they were good to me most of all. They considered me to be an artist. They liked my songs and they knew I had talent."

"Y-You were a musician?" Angela asked.

"Yup. I wrote a song for Patty Smyth once," Sally remembered. "She said it was like…glass shattering."

"Y-You must have…a-a lot of…emotions," the brunette afflicted said wearily, still under the influence.

"They always leave…" Sally said sadly with tears coming to her dark, sinister eyes. "Nick and Tina…w-we came to the Cortez and had a threesome. I injected his dick with the same stuff you got in you…he had an orgasm beyond anything else…I wanted to crawl inside them and masturbate."

"Uh… _what_?" Angela sounded confused at this point.

"Oh…well, yeah," Sally said. "I stitched all three of us together. I didn't want them to ever leave me. We had to stay close. Thick as thieves. Before I knew it…they were foaming at the mouth…I was stuck there for five days straight, stuck with the post-mortem shit from Nick and Tina as I was sewn between them."

"What a stupid idea," the afflicted brunette said. "You're crazy."

"I didn't want them to leave, but they did!" Sally exclaimed sadly, wiping her eyes. "My demon showed up on the second day and tortured me for the next three days before ripping me away from the other two. And now…" She looked around. "The Cortez is the only place I've ever felt a sense of belonging or love…I…am not truly alone."

"You have issues," Angela groaned, turning on her side. "Have you ever sought help? Like, mental help?"

"Bitch, I'm taking care of you," Sally retorted rudely, putting out the cigarette on a dirtied, ashy plate nearby.

"So?" Angela asked, "you chose to."

"Mr. March found you in the hallway near his old room," the drug addict replied with a sharp sigh. "He _ordered_ me to take you down here or he wouldn't give me what he promised me."

"Uh…" the afficted brunette trailed off, "what?"

The response Sally gave sent chills down Angela's injured spine—"John."

All Angela could do was gasp, looking at her and shaking her head with a nearly speechless verbal response: " _why_?"

"Because I _love_ him," Sally spat, "and he left with that battle-ax of a wife and their _baby_ …"

"Yeah, I know," Angela replied rapidly, laying back on the pillow while still feeling the rush of China White in her veins, "I told them to leave."

The rage in Sally's eyes was inarguably growing stronger by the minute, angry at the afflicted brunette's words. How could she have told him off like that without her knowledge? Then again, it wasn't like she and Angela had seen each other face-to-face in the hallways of the hotel for weeks on end. Instead, she just listened to Angela continue her rambling as the fires of hatred grew inside her.

"It's because of him I'm this…monster…" she explained, looking down at the gauntlet she had taken from the Countess after her murder by she, Ramona and Iris. "I spared his life…just so his children didn't have to suffer a fatherless childhood…" She saw the angry look on her face and tried to appeal to her so she could be cheered up; "but let's hope he has a reason to come back to the Cortez. If I don't kill him, then Pamela will. She's got her own reason."

Sally's anger began to quell, nodding at the one in the dirtied cot as she took a sharp breath with tears in her dark brown eyes from the anger she didn't let out on Angela—"you're ahead of me."

"Oh, I am?"

"Yeah, because if he dies here, then I will have him forever and ever, and he will _never_ leave me again," Sally sighed, sniffling and lighting a fresh cigarette from her case. Angela was confused, shaking her head and scowling.

"Uh…you said this place was the only place you felt you belonged," she contradicted.

"It is," the addict said, "but I need John."

"Keep dreaming," Angela replied, sighing and feeling the China White start to wear off in her bloodstream. "I can't promise you a hundred percent, but you may just have him."

"I _will_ have him!" Sally exclaimed with frightening determination. "I will! You hear?"

Angela shook her head so slowly and subtly that it didn't even look like she was doing so. She turned her eyes toward the bottle-blonde, kinky-haired Sally, whose dark eyes were full of tears that refused to start rolling down her cheeks. She blinked a few times before saying something of importance, having a rather radical idea to repay Sally for taking care of her.

"I want to help you," she said.

"Please," Sally droned as she shook her head, nicotine fuming the air like an overworked machine in a factory, "how the hell could you possibly help me? You don't know a _damn thing_ about me! _Or_ my pain…"

"Well, Sally," Angela said hesitantly, "you have issues. Before you go off saying that shit, just know that I can relate to you. You suffer an addiction, and I did, too. I made myself puke every chance I got from the ages of twelve to sixteen. It's not the same context but definitely an addiction, also."

"I'm dead," Sally retorted, "you can't help me. The only way I can truly take the edge off now is by taking people under with me."

"All of those people you hurt, or have hurt," Angela explained, taking Sally's free hand that was resting on the dirty cot, "were just BandAids. Nothing more. You could _have_ an actual future. Plus it's the least I could do since you helped me just now."

"How the hell do you suspect that?" the addict asked, taking her hand away and standing up, dropping the cigarette on the floor only to stomp it out with her shoe.

"I don't know…" Angela replied, feeling the full extent of the China White wear off for good.

* * *

A few days later, Angela was back on her feet and moving around as though she had never been telekinetically tossed against the hallway wall. One advantage of the ancient blood virus was accelerated healing, with her cracked vertebrae and head bump patching up on their own in just three days. In fact, she had been downstairs on the ground floor in the lobby behind the front desk with Iris and Liz, having just checked in two hotel reviewers while serving them complimentary glasses of champagne. Acts of kindness such as this were enough to make Angela forget about feeding and the idea of killing in order to survive.

But when she brought up her concern for Sally and her need to help her find her place in the world, both looked at her.

"All she does is dwell on the past," Iris told her. "Then again, I never did apologize for pushing her ass out the window."

"No offense," Angela replied, lighting a fresh cigarette using Liz's lighter, "but I can't blame her if she doesn't forgive you."

"You're like me because of John," Iris replied. "Hypocrite."

Rolling her eyes, she finally looked at Liz, who nodded and smoked from his own cigarette—he was dressed beautifully in his usual flamboyant style with an outfit consisting of black hose, black pumps, and a rainbow-sequined bodycon dress that was not as flattering as his caftans. On his ears were faux coral earrings set in brass and around his neck hung a matching necklace with a gold chain.

"What do you think, Liz?" the afflicted brunette said.

Tapping out his cigarette and crushing it in the crystal ashtray, his response was simple—"she's got major attachment issues. She needs help."

"But how can I help her?"

Iris took a moment to think, nodding with a smirk and parted lips—"a medium."

"What?"

"A medium talks to the dead," Iris replied.

"Bitch, please!" a voice exclaimed.

The three turned their attention to the figure of a woman dressed in the gaudy clothes she was known for—Pamela. She was vested in the most floral jacket Angela had ever seen, and it was over a white t-shirt with floral embroidery on the scooped neckline tucked into light blue flare jeans. Her earrings were wide wooden hoops with carving in the grain of them, and she wore her miniature dreamcatcher around her neck.

"Oh, uh…" Angela greeted, "hey."

"So you want to help Sally, huh?" Pamela asked, making her way closer to the front desk.

"What's it to you?" Iris asked with a sarcastic chuckle. "Can you talk to dead people like you claim to see the future?"

"Okay, first off, I CAN see the future," the police psychic's ghost said. "Second of all, yes, I did once."

"Once," Angela muttered to herself.

"My little brother died when he was three," Pamela said, "and after he died, I remember seeing him."

"But if you're dead, how can _you_ help her?" Liz asked, sliding into the conversation seamlessly.

"Pamela doesn't have to," Iris said, looking down as the screen of her smartphone shone up in her face.

Angela looked over her friend and colleague's shoulder to see a website displayed under the Safari app with a purple backdrop and a very professional layout that eventually revealed the face of a very attractive woman. She looked to be in her mid-thirties with feathered, golden hair with calm brown eyes, their tranquility showing their mystical streak. Angela noticed a string of pearls in the portrait, and then continued on to only vaguely read the name of the woman along with a description:

" _Billie Dean Howard – Psychic Medium_

 _Having displayed exceptional psychic abilities since childhood, Billie Dean Howard has extended her helping hands to reach the realm of Spirit in order to assist those find the answers they're seeking. Of all, she specializes in mediumship and will gladly assist you in communicating with the loved ones you miss most."_

"H-How did you find this?" Angela asked, looking at the purple screen.

"Billie Dean Howard is one of the best psychics in the country," Iris said. "Psychic to the stars."

"Bullshit," Pamela said rather rudely, "I can say that about myself and put it on a website, too, if I wanted."

"Don't be a killjoy," Angela said, glaring at the police psychic ghost. "She could be your chance of finally leaving this damn place. Don't you see?"

 _She's got a point_ , the ghost thought to herself, _I have to get the fuck out of here. I've been trapped here too long._

"W-What are her rates?" Angela asked. "Do you think she may be able to help for real?"

"Well, her credentials are very credible," Iris said. "It says here…" She scrolled down by tapping her screen, "she charges $200 per session. Each session is one hour."

"Ripoff," Angela said. "Sounds like a scam."

"It's worth a try," Liz suggested. "I'm sure Will doesn't mind. He knows of this place and its… _happenings_. We all should actually start working to make this a better place for people to be welcomed and accepted. Like those reviewers we gave champagne to. _That's_ a start."

"Wait…" Angela said, looking at her transvestite best friend. "Is it up to you to do that? Will is still the owner…uh…" She paused and looked at Iris. " _Right_?"

Iris and Liz looked at each other, and Pamela looked down at the surface of the table, just muttering to herself loud enough so Angela could make out what she was saying—"he's moping upstairs."

" _What_?"

"Yeah," Pamela said, "it's like he doesn't exist anymore."

"What do you mean?" Angela asked. "Is he okay? What about Lachlan?"

"He's just so full of himself that he's empty on inspiration," Pamela said. "I'd go up there before it's too late, Kate Moss."

Without wasting another moment's time, Angela went from behind the counter and out into the lobby, walking rapidly toward the elevator with her modelling dreams as motivation for raising Will's spirits enough to make him want to design again. Stepping in, she made a quick wave to her friends at the front desk before the door closed, bringing her up to the highest floor, to where she had not been since killing the Countess. When she walked to the door of the penthouse, she knocked only for it to open within moments to Lachlan. Angela looked down at him as he greeted her.

"Hello."

"Hello," Angela said, "i-is your dad home?"

"Uh…h-he's not so good right now," Lachlan answered hesitantly.

"Please. I need to see him. Tell him it's me! _Angela_! Angela Saxon! I've been modeling his clothes and—"

"Okay, okay."

The door closed, but within moments, Lachlan opened it back up again and allowed her in. Angela's feline-like blue eyes fixed on her surroundings as she scurried toward the lounge area, seeing Will sitting there moping as if in a really depressed state of mind. It appeared as though he hadn't shaved or bathed in a few days, and it intimidated and shocked her to no end as she made her way closer to him.

"Uh…Will?"

His blue eyes just looked up at her slowly, sighing sadly as she took a seat next to him.

"A-Are you okay? I was told that—"

"Yeah," Will cut in as he leaned back. "I'm falling to pieces."

"Since the Countess died," she assumed.

"That's not the problem," Will said, shocking her more and to the point where she widened her eyes. _He doesn't care_ , she thought. "Listen, Angela. I feel like I don't exist anymore, or starting not to. My business is going to shambles."

"I don't understand. You're a big name in fashion," Angela replied, shaking her head. "It can't be!"

"The stores on Rodeo and Fifth Avenue were closed two days ago, I found out," Will explained. "They shuttered the couture division, and as of now, the perfumes and sunglasses are keeping everything else afloat." He stood and began to pace, "I'm _nothing_ anymore!"

"Don't say that!" Angela replied forcefully. "There's got to be another way to fix this."

"I haven't had an original thought in a decade!" the designer exclaimed. "This is California! The land of reinvention. I mean, look what this place did for me. Where does everyone even think I am?"

Angela looked at him and shook her head, slightly offended—" _I_ wasn't enough inspiration for you?"

"Well…y-you _were_ , but…I…I have no motivation," Will said, trying to correct his statement. "You are a fine model, Angela. It's not that. I just…everything here…hasn't inspired me as much as I thought it would." He directed his eyes to where Lachlan had been eavesdropping, standing with his cheek pressed to a pillar near the front door. "This is no place for a young man."

"After all that's happened," Angela said, "I can understand why. He's not safe here."

Will shook his head and sat back down with a brief sigh. "My best bet is Paris."

"Paris?"

"I never got to go," he said. "Not in a long time, at least. I…I need to leave California."

"A-Are you sure?" Angela asked, frowning slightly.

"There's nothing for me here, Angela."

Seeing a familiar sketchbook resting on the coffee table before them, she took it along with a pencil that had been laying there and extended it to him encouragingly, a sad smile plastered on her flawless, alabaster face as her eyes twinkled at him with hope and longing for achieving her dreams.

"Draw," she commanded—he shied away.

"I…I can't," he resisted.

"Do it. Draw. Create," she said feistily, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. "Become a part of the world again. The world keeps spinning and your empire will continue to crumble beneath your feet unless you _create_ , Will. _Do_ it!"

Without wasting another minute moping around like a sorry excuse for a human life, Will opened his sketchbook and drew a figure with an eerie resemblance to Angela, who's motivational speaking made him want to draw more from the newly-planted seeds of inspiration in his head.

"You're iconic," she told him with a nod. "Your fashion house is _iconic_. I can only imagine that what you're designing right now will be a legendary masterpiece!"

Will continued to draw, aggressively channeling his negative emotions into a rather positive outcome—when he began reaching for his special colored pencils for design purposes, Angela watched over his shoulder to see he was creating an evening gown on what looked to be Angela in the sketch; it was a beautiful bright, almost turquoise blue gown that reached the ankles and was clearly made of fine satin. The bodice was rather complicated, but it looked to flatter her pear-figure well—there were capped sleeves but a very strappy piece of coverage on the breast area that gave cleavage above and below the expected line. When it was finally finished, she nodded and for the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, Will smiled at himself.

"This is remarkable," Angela said, giving her feedback. "Blue has always been a favorite of mine."

Will's response was rather impulsive; as she walked away, he reached for her hand and smiled grandly at her—"please come to Paris with Lachlan and I!"

"Uh…w-what?"

"You heard me," Will said happily. "You are the drive I need to succeed. I'll help you settle there, too. I'll get you a nice flat, a car, and I will personally pay you out of pocket to model my designs during Fashion Week! Please say you will!"

 _This is it_ , she thought, _don't back away. Sure, you'll miss Liz and Iris,_ _but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity._

" _J'ai la chance que je sais Français_ ," she said flawlessly. " _Toutes ces années, il étudie au lycée vont payer comme je vis mon rêve d'être un modèle_."

His jaw dropped in awe. "You speak French!"

"Yup," Angela said. "It'll sure help. I'm not fluent, but I try."

* * *

"I'm so glad you could come, Miss Howard. Please make yourself comfortable. Would you like some champagne?"

The following night, Iris had checked the famed medium, Billie Dean Howard, into the Hotel Cortez and gave her Room 70, a room that had been redone with 400-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and had a brand new mattress and TV set put into the suite. Iris had put Liz in charge of booking her to come in from her abode in San Francisco, and luckily, the flight down to Los Angeles didn't take very long. The trip seemed to have paid off—Billie Dean was even lovelier in person, wearing something Iris knew for a fact Pamela would be drooling over had she been in the room; a v-neck, long-sleeved dress that was black with pink floral patterns on it, resembling ugly wallpaper. Her golden hair was feathered, and looked slightly darker at the roots, proving it had been dyed. Her calm brown eyes gave off the same mystical feel when she and her eyes met for the first time.

"Thank you," Billie Dean replied kindly with her soft-spoken voice, sitting down at the table in the room while Iris pushed the cart into the room with the complimentary champagne in a bucket of frigid, shorn ice. When she poured it, she handed it to her guest who took a sip and rested it on the table.

"No, thank _you_ for coming," Iris smiled, taking the seat across from her as the medium began to speak.

"Tell me, please," Billie Dean began, crossing one leg over the other graciously as if trying to make a good impression, "why have you called me here?"

"We…have a problem with…the _inhabitants_ here," Iris explained uncertainly.

"Such as?"

"Everyone who has ever died here is stuck," Iris said. "I know that's normal when it comes to this kind of phenomenon but—"

"There is a chance to release them," the medium interrupted slowly, "if they are bothering you and the current guests who are indeed alive."

"T-There is?"

"Yes, but under one condition," Billie Dean said, "and that is usually the toughest."

"What would that be?"

"All spirits must find their purpose before crossing over into the light," Billie Dean explained. "Spirits who have unfinished business here on earth will either be prevented from crossing over, or they will choose to stay among the living in an attempt to attain that sense of completion. That can take years."

"One has haunted this place for twenty," Iris groaned with annoyance. "I hope you can help her cross over, along with all the other ones who happened to meet their end in this hotel."

"I hope I can help them to the light," Billie Dean smiled, leaning over to touch Iris' pale, aged, cold hand. "If there are several who remain, I can always return at a later date. Both them and I must keep an open mind about the light and their passage into it."

"Thank you so much." Iris stood up from her seat and went to the cart to push it out of the room. "You must get rest for tomorrow. They're most active at night, but I hope they don't disturb you."

"It's a _very_ noisy hotel," the medium replied as she stood from her chair, clasping her hands down in front of her. "It isn't anything I'm not used to. Goodnight, and I will begin in the morning."

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **So Billie Dean has finally made an appearance, and I am twisting it a bit to close the story. I'm not giving spoilers, but one thing's for sure, I disliked the finale of Hotel a lot. I feel like the final episode of this season was like a big montage of everything that happened, and I just felt it was too jumbled for words to describe. Strangely enough, I feel my story has predicted Liz's final transition into becoming a ghost, but that scene with him and Tristan...WOW! Cried my eyes out.**

 **I want to also add the translation, into English, what Angela said in French:** " _J'ai la chance que je sais Français._ _Toutes ces années, il étudie au lycée vont payer comme je vis mon rêve d'être un modèle_." - " _Lucky for me, I know French. All the years studying it in high school will pay off as I live out my dream to be a model."_

 **I hope you guys continue reading to the end, and I want to thank you all for reading my work and being just all-around amazing people. I'm grateful, really.**


	27. Chapter 26

**_~ chapter twenty-six ~_**

Billie Dean woke up rather early the next morning, and worked her way through releasing the three spirits successfully. She started with the first two spirits she saw, releasing them at the same time, Swedish tourists Agnetha and Vendela. The two blondes were both wearing the same exact clothing as they had when they died—Agnetha was braless beneath a white tank top and kimono over the shoulders with short shorts and a pair of gladiator sandals. Vendela wore a black fedora with a more conservative ensemble featuring a green printed t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers manufactured by Vans.

Billie Dean got the two to sit down where she found them, which was in the vast, extravagant lobby, and spoke to them both about their purpose.

"Do you feel there is unfinished business left on your plates?" she had asked.

"O-Our families," Agnetha said with her thick Scandinavian accent, "are back in Sweden. I…know they miss us so much."

" _Ja_ ," Vendela agreed, "w-we want to leave here."

"They don't know you're dead," Billie Dean said to them, "but I am sure I can get the message across to them that you are."

"They will be sad," Vendela frowned, " _so_ sad. We should never gone on this trip." With that phrase spoken, Vendela held a tearful Agnetha's hand.

"When people cry at a death," the medium said, "they cry for themselves because they miss the person. Really, the realm of spirit is so large that happiness can easily and potentially be reached by all spirits who seek the light."

"The…light?"

"Yes." Billie Dean said with a smile. "Are you both ready to go into the light?"

"I…uh… _ja_ ," Vendela said with a nod.

" _Ja_ ," Agnetha agreed, nodding through the tears she tried to wipe away. " _Tack så mycket_ …"

The two spirits got up from their seats in the lobby and waved back at Billie Dean, who got up and smiled back at them, her arms across her chest as they exited the Hotel Cortez for the first and last time.

* * *

The next spirit to be released that day Donovan, who seemed very disgruntled and even angry at the fact that he had died via a gunshot to the head. Pamela had delivered his fate, and he made this clear.

"That hippie bitch," he grunted. "She shot me."

"Is that how you died?" Billie Dean questioned.

"Yes."

"I bet you have a lot of unfinished business, considering the spontaneous nature of your death," the medium said, rather frightened by the energy the ballroom-turned-torture chamber was giving off.

"I never wanted to die here," Donovan growled.

"Not everyone has a choice where they die, Donovan," she answered calmly. "Have you kept yourself hidden from the others in this hotel for a long time now?"

"Ever since being killed, yes."

"Your mother, Iris, is still alive," Billie Dean mentioned. "I feel you have amends to make with her."

Donovan sighed, nodding complacently—"I do."

"Do you feel ready to make those amends?" the woman questioned.

"Whatever it takes to get me out of this _dump_ ," he said spitefully.

After making this deal with the medium willing to free him from the hotel, the two ventured up to the lobby, where they found Iris, Angela and Liz standing behind the receptionist's desk. Of all the faces of shock his presence made, Iris's jaw was dropped so low that it looked detached from her face. Donovan approached the desk, giving Angela what seemed to be a stink eye, but she didn't even look at him. She tried blocking out his presence as much as possible.

"Dono?" she asked.

"I've come to say sorry," Donovan replied to his mother, who came out from behind the counter and looked at him rather coldly.

"You're _sorry_?" Iris asked skeptically. "After twenty years of taking your shit?"

"Look, I know I was an asshole to you," Donovan said, "but if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have survived that overdose twenty years ago. I spent the next two decades trying to avoid you and I said some really nasty shit, but I want you to know…I…I love you, mom."

Iris just looked up at her son's ghost, nearly tearing up from his words. He placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned down and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She could feel a vaguely cold breeze caress her skin, which made her feel more certain that he was genuinely apologizing.

"D-Do you mean that, Dono?" she questioned.

"Yes, mom," Donovan replied with a smirk, kissing her other cheek. "I don't want to leave the Cortez without telling you. I hope that this… _light_ the medium is talking about leads me back to my bed at home with your homemade blueberry pancakes every morning."

"Oh, Dono," Iris smiled, "I accept your apology. I forgive you. I…I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, mom," he said, looking back at Billie Dean and smiling; she had been standing behind him the entire time; "I'm ready to go. My work here is done."

"No," Billie Dean said, noticing the way Angela was trying to block his presence from her sight; "there's someone else you need to make amends with."

"W-Who?"

"That pretty brunette at the desk," she hinted—Angela looked up upon hearing this, finally noticing the medium's presence and coming out from behind the counter, leaving Liz to smoke a cigarette behind it.

"Uh…did you call _me_?" she asked.

"Donovan would like to say a few words to you," Billie Dean said, looking at him. " _Don't_ you, Donovan."

"Uh…" His piercing, heavy-weighted blue eyes looked at Angela as he approached her, noticing her arms crossed over her chest in a rather displeased sort of way. "I…was an asshole to you, too."

"I'll say," Angela said. "The Countess is dead, now. We didn't need you, anyways."

"No, that's not what I mean," he replied.

"Then…"

"I'm sorry I pretended to love you. I'm sorry for going back to her. I'm sorry for betraying the alliance," he listed. "Where is Ramona now?"

"Back in Beverly Hills with peace of mind," she answered vaguely. "I don't think she'd forgive you like I could."

"Y-You forgive me?" Donovan asked.

"Sure," the afficted brunette said with her feline blue eyes looking up at him. "Why not? After all, you did try to put up that façade to get your way. You weren't what you seemed, but you seem to be okay underneath the betrayal and the scumbag behavior."

He lifted her hand and kissed the top of it courteously, smiling down at her with his eyes and pearly whites; "thank you, Angela. I can cross into the light now."

"Have fun," she said, "and good luck. Maybe I'll see you one day."

"A couple centuries?" Donovan asked.

"Not even _that_ long," Angela giggled.

With that, Donovan made his way to exit the Hotel Cortez for the final time; Billie Dean looked to Angela, noticing a rather smug, proud look on her face. She approached her, the floral skirt of her dress flowing around her form as she moved.

"I…sense you owed him a favor," she said as soon as his spirit left the hotel. "Or felt obliged to forgive him."

"Not at all," Angela replied, her eyes looking back at hers. "If it weren't for him, I would have died. He saved me. It's the least I could do."

* * *

Over the course of the next two days, Billie Dean was able to successfully release the spirits of Sally, the heroin addict, who was rather sad about leaving. The spirit of the Countess Elizabeth, who was more challenging due to her dark presence but successfully came to terms with the heartbreak associated with over a century of being in the hotel. Between her unhappy marriage with March and the murder of her baby boy Bartholomew, she realized it was best to just cross over into the light and forget all about the miserable existence she led.

Back to Sally, though—Billie Dean had an easier time, as Sally's struggles during life were rather relatable and not as grand on the scale as Elizabeth's. She had told everything from her childhood friend in the valley, becoming a drug dealer, her addiction, her musical talents and her struggles with attachment and relating to others socially. She had talked about how Iris pushed her out of the window in 1994, and how John betrayed her, and she even claimed he was her unfinished business, but Billie Dean had sensed otherwise.

"He is gone now," she told her. "He won't come back here."

"Because Angela and Pamela threatened to kill him and his family if he did," Sally retorted.

"Don't worry about him," Billie Dean said.

"If it's not him," Sally asked, "what _is_ my purpose? My un _finished_ business?"

"You have to come to terms with yourself," Billie Dean said. "I can help you. Y-You haven't abused anything lately, have you?"

"Not since yesterday," Sally said.

"Is that all you do in order to feel something?"

"Yes, aside from taking others under with me. The high isn't like when I was alive," Sally answered sadly, tears coming to her face. "Getting high used to be how you'd imagine heaven to be; pure light, perfection, even in me. Then I got lost, trying to climb higher and…b-be closer to the light. It was an endless ladder. All I did was get further and further away."

This thought-provoking explanation for her need for heroin and other drugs made Billie Dean nod, knowing full well she was ready to go to the afterlife. "What if you had a more permanent fix?"

"Huh?"

"Are you ready to go into the light for good?" Billie Dean asked.

"Well…yeah…I guess."

Standing up from her seat, Billie Dean gave the broken ghost a big embrace for good luck, before watching her leave the room and walk down the hallway rather sluggishly before getting into the elevator. When she made it down to the lobby, she walked out into the cool breeze of the daytime, letting it sweep her kinky, bottle-blond hair back as she lit a cigarette, walking down the street toward her freedom.

* * *

On the second night of releasing spirits, Billie Dean hadn't made much progress in releasing any spirits as the Countess, released after Sally, drained her mentally and physically. She had been sleeping in her hotel suite for three hours on the sofa until hearing loud music from what she sensed to be down the hallway. Getting up from her bed and pulling the covers back, Billie Dean slipped on her slippers and opened the hotel room door to hear loud disco music coming from Room 64.

She walked down the hallway and to Room 64, following the heavy bass, only to find that the door was unlocked. Opening it slowly, she could hear the disco music and the lyrics clearly as she watched a strawberry-blonde haired woman moving her feet in squares, much like a 1970s discothèque attendant before walking toward the door slightly, then back a step, moving a foot diagonally across the other before spinning and clapping her hands once. She then held out her arms and straightened her hands, moving side to side in a tip-toe fashion before sashaying to the left and spinning once more only to make perfect eye contact with the medium.

"Uh…hello?"

The woman, Pamela, looked back and smiled, seeing her vintage-style pajama gown and pointing.

"I love your jammies," the ghost of the woman said with enthusiasm. "That's something Karen would wear!"

"Karen?" Billie Dean questioned. "I-I'm sorry, I don't follow."

Pamela groaned—"Karen Carpenter, silly! I'm surprised you haven't heard of her!"

"Oh, I…I like her music," the medium said.

"She's my favorite," Pamela said, the disco music still playing in the background. "She went solo in 1979. A lot of her tracks weren't released. A posthumous album was released when I was little, but…I didn't develop my obsession until I was a teenager. I like her solo work, but her and Richard were a gift from God if there really is one."

"I…see," the medium said.

"Yeah. This is an amazing track. She went disco and changed with the times around the time she broke from the actual Carpenters group. I wouldn't have done that, but…oh well."

"She's since crossed into the light," Billie Dean smiled.

"Yeah," Pamela said. "1983. Anorexia nervosa. Poor girl. It was actually an overdose of ipecac syrup. Awful way to die. Can you imagine trying to make yourself puke constantly only to have your heart give out? I can't. Sounds very painful. Everyone called her fat when she was alive, but she wasn't. She was lovely!"

"Um…" Billie Dean was speechless, practically shut up by the ghost's extensive knowledge on the singer of the tune still playing on the record player, hearing the lighthearted bridge of the song:

" _And we fly together across the floor_

 _My heart's crying out for more_

 _'Cause I just can't resist you…_ "

Then the ghost started dancing again to the instrumental part of the bridge with the musical key catching up to match the rest of the song. Before Billie Dean knew it, the ghost began to sing along with the tune in a soft, breathy voice as she danced in the same style as before:

" _Well, I know it wouldn't be right_

 _To say take me home tonight_

 _When we get to dancing…_

 _When I see you dancing…_

 _When we get to dancing…_

 _My body keeps changing my mind,_

 _Keeps changing my heart_

 _When we're dancing…_

 _My body says love you tonight_

 _To drive me out of my mind_

 _When we're dancing…_ "

The song faded, and Pamela took the needle off the record, preventing it from spinning anymore as she looked back to see Billie Dean seated on the sofa of Room 64. The ghost heard her necklaces and rings clacking against each other as she turned around, feeling her overpoweringly floral skirt flow around her legs.

"I'd play more," Pamela said, "but why are you here? Huh?"

"What is your name?" Billie Dean asked.

"Pamela," she replied.

"Well, Pamela," the medium said, "I know you're dead."

"I know."

"You do?"

"You're that psychic Iris hired to release everyone from the hotel," Pamela replied. "How's that going?"

"I've released a few," Billie Dean said. "They're in the light now."

"The light?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, but," Pamela interrupted as she put her hands on her hips, "I seriously doubt there's a light when people die. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet."

"I know you do," Billie Dean said. "Let's talk about it."

"Why?"

"Well," the medium began in a confused manner, "you want to leave the Hotel Cortez, don't you?"

"Yeah," the hippie ghost said complacently. "I know. I do. I just…well…"

"Well, what?" Billie Dean questioned.

"I have unfinished business," Pamela said, "and that is…to kill John."

"John?"

"Yeah."

"Who is that?"

"One of the most prolific serial killers in the history of Los Angeles," the ghost said. "See, he was my partner. We were both cops. I'm a police psychic, so, in case you're wondering about, you know, me knowing you were psychic, that's why."

"He was a cop… _and_ a killer?" Billie Dean asked.

"Yeah. Lied to me the whole time. I don't know how I didn't see it coming," Pamela said. "Apparently he had screws loose. All those…innocent people he killed."

"Is that why you…want to kill him?"

"The ends sometimes justify the means. Of course," Pamela said.

"Well, he's gone now," Billie Dean said, standing up and holding both of Pamela's heavily-ringed hands with bangles on the wrists they were attached to. The ghost looked down, feeling the smoothness of the tops of her manicured hands as her hands were being handled. "You don't have to worry about him. He won't be back anytime soon."

"If he's smart," the ghost sneered under her breath.

"It's no lie that the dead hold a grudge better than most Scorpios," Billie Dean referenced jokingly.

Pamela looked into the medium's eyes and smiled a bit—"I'm a Scorpio."

"You are?"

"Well," Pamela said, correcting herself, "not really. I mean, they call it a cusp. November 21 is my birthday. So I'm also a Sagittarius."

"Ah."

"Well…then again," Pamela said in thought, "you're right. I'm dead. I don't have to worry about John anymore. I don't think I do. If anything, I'll put my grudge aside and into Angela's hands. She's alive, but…you know…she wants revenge on him for nearly killing her."

"I see," Billie Dean said as Pamela's hands got out of hers as she walked back over to the record player, putting the needle back onto the vinyl and hearing a smooth clarinet start playing in a calm key that sounded like a fading sunset. Pamela hummed slightly, but gave an explanation as to why she was playing the last track on the record.

"This was Karen's last studio recording," the ghost said somberly as Billie Dean listened closely. "This will also be the last song I listen to haunting the physical plane. This also happens to be an instrumental on the B-side, a bonus track." She looked back at Billie Dean, who sat back down and looked at the ghost. "I dedicate this to you, for freeing me from this place. This is for you."

Billie Dean heard the slight jingle in the beginning just before the chorus, where Pamela began to sing:

" _Now,_

 _Now when it rains, I don't feel cold,_

 _Now that I have your hand to hold,_

 _The winds might blow through me, but I don't care_

 _There's no harm in thunder if you are there…_ "

Billie Dean nodded at the sheer beauty of Pamela's willowy, crisp voice that sounded so breathy all-around. It only got better as she continued into the chorus. She was enthralled with the rather wonderful impromptu performance by the obsessive Carpenters fan:

" _And now all the fears that I have start to fade…_

 _I was always afraid love might forget me,_

 _Love might let me down…_

 _Then look who I found_ …"

With a sax solo and background vocals, Billie Dean smiled at the performance and the second half of it, rather impressed how Pamela could hold a note at the end as the soft, sleepy music ended on a high note:

" _And now,_

 _Now when I wake, there's someone home_

 _I'll never face the night alone…_

 _You gave me the courage I need to win,_

 _To open my heart and to let you in…_

 _And I never really knew how until now_

 _Until now…_

 _No, I never really knew how until now_ …"

"Wow…" The medium stood from her seat and gave her a standing ovation, smiling grandly with tears of joy coming from her eyes. "I've never had a spirit dedicate a song to me, thanking me for helping them see the light."

Pamela held her hand out and shook the medium's; "thank _you_. I was skeptical at first, but without you I wouldn't be here right now, more ready to leave this hotel than ever before."

"Goodbye," Billie Dean said. "I know Karen is waiting for a _very_ devoted fan on the other side."

"Oh boy!"

With that, she sped off out of Room 64 and down the gruesomely geometric hallway, pushing the elevator button before it came to her floor. Stepping in, she almost hopped up and down and screamed with excitement like a giddy schoolgirl before reaching the lobby, where she saw no one but Angela sitting at the front desk with her hands clasped together. Seeing her unusual amount of excitement, Angela just looked at her with a furrowed brow.

"Uh… _Pamela_? What's up with you?" she asked with a slight giggle.

"I'm free! I'M FREE!" the ghost said happily. "And Karen is waiting for me in the light! I knew this day would come!"

"Wait, hasn't she…been dead thirty years?" Angela asked with confusion.

"Well, duh!" the ghost replied.

"Then…I don't—"

"I'm dead, too, now," Pamela smiled. "I don't have to worry about shit anymore!"

Angela came out from behind the desk and looked down at the ghost, who was shorter by a few inches at only five-two. "Uh…what about your revenge on John?"

"You want it more than I do," the police psychic's spirit said. "You go get him. I have a feeling you'll stick around this damn hotel for a while."

"No," Angela said, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head. "Y-You're wrong."

Pamela's eyes narrowed at the living afflicted brunette; "uh…what?"

"I'm leaving for Paris," the brunette told her, batting her lashes slowly.

" _Paris_?" Pamela asked with shock, her eyebrows raised.

"Yeah," Angela said. "I'm going to become a real model. Will Drake is moving there, taking Lachlan away from this place. New York is out of the picture."

"Well, since you say that, I have one last prophecy for you," Pamela said with a nod.

"Y-You do?" Angela asked. "What is it?"

Pamela looked around the place and nodded, the vision coming to her head like second nature: "you see all this art deco bullshit?"

Angela also looked around: "yeah?"

"Every bit of this hotel will be demolished," the police psychic said. "Down to the foundation and even further into the basement. The bodies down there…ew, imagine those poor construction workers."

"Uh-huh?" Angela nodded, her eyebrows raised at the shocking vision Pamela was dictating to her.

"Will is going to order its demolition. He's going to sell it to Iris. She will run it from there. It will be fully rebuilt and a new era will be undertaken by her, and your, will to not kill anymore."

"Well, thanks," Angela said. "Good to know. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Pamela replied with a smile. "It was wonderful knowing you. I'm off to a place where there's no space or time."

The ghost turned on her heels with her back to Angela, walking toward the entrance of the hotel as she hummed an important piece of the Carpenters' song, _A Song for You_ , catching Angela's interest as she finally stepped foot out of the Cortez to her freedom in the light.

When the time to finally go back behind the receptionist desk came, Angela sighed but turned around to see no one in the lobby but Mr. March with a pipe and dressed in one of his finest suits. His soulless, almost pitch black eyes looked at her with a familiar longing, nearly frightening her so much she fainted.

"Ah, greetings, Miss Saxon," he smiled. "Venturing to Paris with that man who is light-in-the-loafers, I hear?"

"Uh…" Angela looked down but could only nod.

"And you all have hired someone to cleanse this hotel," March added. "I'm appalled."

"Uh…but, don't you want to finally leave?" she asked.

"I built this hotel," March stated. "What is the purpose of leaving?"

"I'm just asking."

"If you are going away to Paris, and I'm being evicted from my own property," he said, "then please, I expect you to come to my suite for dinner tomorrow evening at 6 o'clock."

"Okay."

"Excellent."


	28. Chapter 27

_**~ chapter twenty-seven ~**_

 **NOTE:** _May contain explicit material. Discretion is advised._

* * *

The following night, Angela took care to look her best knowing full well it would be her last dinner with Mr. March. Her dress, which came just above the knee, had a folding collar but it was hard to adjust because it was entirely covered with sequins sewn into the rather flimsy fabric. She also wore a pair of peep-toe nude heels and kept her hair down while wearing hot pink lipstick and heavy mascara with winged eyeliner.

When she knocked on the door to his suite, she felt rather nervous and was even feeling a sense of fear build up in her core—what if something bad were to happen on this final night dining with Mr. March? What if this was a trap for banishing John and his family from the hotle under threat of their deaths? What if the food was purposely poisoned for this reason?

 _Don't worry_ , she thought to herself, _I don't think he'd do that. He saved me from jumping from a window for god's sakes._

 _Knock-knock!_

The door opened to the same pitch-black eyes that captivated her, instilling more fear but at the same time making her feel sorry for the sense of longing he had. His grin was larger than life, but her eyes were caught onto his as if in a trance.

"Good evening, Miss Saxon," he said happily, extending his hand, "welcome."

She took his hand and after he closed the door for her, he led her to the opposite side of the long table adorned with a white tablecloth, polished silverware, and bronze candlesticks protruding flickering white, clean-burning tapers from the tops of them. Angela, however, noticed something odd about the vicinity, pointing it out as soon as March pulled out her chair for her to be seated before seating himself to a cigarette.

"Uh…Mr. March?" she asked.

"Yes, my dear?" he questioned, tapping the end of the rolled cigarette on his leather case.

"W-Where is Miss Evers?"

As soon as he got the flame from his lighter, March's intimidating, pitch-black gaze turned up to Angela, slowly dragging in the initial inhalation of the nicotine for three long seconds before slowly taking the lighter away. Putting the cigarette in his holder, he looked straight to her with a glare that made her heart shrink in her chest.

"Never mention her name again."

"Uh…what?" Angela said, looking at him with confusion before noticing there was no food prepared on the table, not even a glass of blood for her to drink from and satisfy her need to feed.

"She is banished from my presence," March replied with aggravation in his voice.

"Can you tell me why?" Angela pressed.

He was silent for a split second before responding: "well, the trollop confessed to betraying me all those years ago. She left behind a handkerchief for the police to encounter during their search here in the Hotel Cortez. I had used that same one to clean up some bloody evidence."

She continued to listen to him explain everything that happened in detail, feeling her hands shake on her lap as the need to feed on blood grew more intense with each passing moment.

"She wanted me for herself, and after all this time, she confessed her love for me," March said, his voice turning from calm aggravation to a sharp, piercing scream of anger and resentment: "I WOULD MUCH RATHER HAVE BEEN CAPTURED BY THE POLICE!" He took a breath. "ALL THESE YEARS SPENT DEAD AND _ALONE_ IN MY OWN PRISON! MY ELIZABETH WOULDN'T EVEN _DARE_ COME TO DINE WITH ME OUT OF DESIRE BUT OUT OF OBLIGIATION! I BELIEVED MISS EVERS TO BE LOYAL AND I GET STABBED IN THE DAMN BACK, DRIVEN TO SLASH MY OWN THROAT AFTER KILLING HER AS MY LAST VICTIM!"

Angela looked up at him, the fear spilling out of her heart and oozing into the river of her soul. There was a silence, and her shaking hands went from her lap to the clothed surface of the table, slowly rising from her seat. She straightened her legs, buckling her knees as she erected her back, staring right at him with her feline-shaped blue eyes. When he looked back at her, he looked more sad than angry.

"Do not leave," he instructed, regaining his calm. "I…" He ended up walking slowly toward Angela, who just looked at him with anticipation, "I need you here, my dear."

"W-Why?" she asked.

 _Muah…_

He kissed her cheek and smiled down at her, his hands moving from the sides of her upper arm to her shoulders before finally sliding up her neck to cup her jaw in his hands. Their eyes met, and Angela could just feel the weight of his stare as he continued looking into her eyes.

"I do believe this is an obvious answer to you wondering 'why,'" he said.

His gaze drew her in, and before she knew it, March had inched closer toward her face and started to kiss her softly on the lips. Unlike the sadistic demeanor and dark air he had given off, his kiss made her heart dance in her chest, replacing fear with the longing she mutually felt with him, empathizing every moment spent with locked lips. He drank her in softly, and when he broke the kiss, he snaked his arms around her waist and smiled.

"Miss Saxon," he began, "you have made me so happy in the short time you have spent in this hotel, and in the much shorter period of time knowing you and inviting you to dine with me."

"Mr. March," she answered, "are you…uh…just telling me this because you're lonely and don't have the Countess anymore?"

"Not at all!" he exclaimed. "She is dead to me. You are all who matters now, and you are all I need."

"But…you're dead, and…" Angela sighed, "I'm going to Paris."

"Please," he begged, holding her hands up to his lips and kissing them. "I need _one final night_ with you, a night I'll remember for the rest of eternity."

Her heart and soul seemed to betray her as March aggressively held her close and pressed his lips to hers, backing her up relentlessly so that she no choice but to lean on the white tablecloth. March took off his suspenders and undid the buttons of his shirt, his hips situated between Angela's creamy white thighs. She undid the front of her heavily-sequined dress only to have him attack her lips, neck, jawline, and upper breasts with kisses that felt so heated she felt she was going to explode under pressure.

"I love you," he whispered into her skin.

"Not now," she whimpered, feeling his hands parting her legs.

"I need you," he reiterated.

"I've seen the way you look at me," Angela said.

"You are a special woman…" March replied, kneeling on the floor and hiking her skirt up slightly to get better access to the area between her knees. "A creature of beauty."

Without wasting any more time, he slowly slid her silken, wet panties down her legs, letting them hang off her ankle by one leg as he leaned in to kiss her inner thighs. Angela's toes nearly curled, but they couldn't because of the shape of her shoes, but instead she responded by getting wetter with need. The musky scent between her legs drew him closer to her dripping slit, sticking his tongue out and prompting his fingers to find her entrance as his tongue's tip traced her folds.

"Ah!" she exclaimed. "Oh my…"

"Is it pleasing, my dear?" he questioned, continuing to work his tongue as he teased the ring of her entrance with his fingertip.

"Oh yeah…y-yes…"

March groaned as he leaned in to give her bead of pleasure a few quick sucks as he slid in two fingers, working them in and out slowly while looking up at her to wait for signals. Angela's lips parted in a pleasured smile, her hips writhing in ecstasy from his touch.

"Oh yes…"

He gained speed, moving his fingers in and out of her liquid heat as he leaned in again to take her lips into his mouth and suckle them so softly that the sensation nearly killed her.

"Yes! YES!"

It got to the point she was gripping the tablecloth, tightly enough that it made her think it would rip at any moment. As she neared her climax, he stopped pleasuring her and undid the front of his pants, whipping out seven inches of thick, engorged flesh. Angela sat up slightly and looked straight up at him, taking his thickness into her hand and stroking back and forth.

"Hm…ah, Miss Saxon, you have quite a touch!" he groaned rapturously.

She continued to stroke, but laid back on the tablecloth before aligning it with her waiting entrance. March cooperated and held the base of his shaft, guiding the tip of his swollen flesh into her molten center, feeling her heat surrounding him like a glove.

"Ah…yes…" he hissed sharply through his teeth as he leaned down, removing his shirt in the process to reveal his chest, an old-fashioned form of muscular with broad shoulders and sparse chest hair across the area beneath his collarbone. Angela just moaned as she felt his manhood slide in and out of her, but was loud about it as March's mouth attacked the skin of her neck with rough kisses and tender nibbles.

"Ah!" she squealed. "Yes! Please…m-more?"

"Ah, the lady wants me to go faster?"

He held her hips and went faster; in the process, Angela clawed at his back, leaving trail marks from her nails that just faded as she writhed beneath him in pleasure, feeling waves of it take over her form as he continued.

Harder.

Faster.

Deeper.

Even faster.

She was screaming; she couldn't hold it in anymore.

Neither could he.

So he spilled his ghostly seed into the end of the afflicted brunette's fleshy, juiced tunnel. Her neck was arched back when they climaxed together, and her immortal heart was racing at a deadly rate. It was almost just as good as feeding, the high much more intense, like a drug stronger than the China White Sally had given her when helping her to health.

When she opened her eyes and looked up, she could see the sharp end of a knife that had been on the table in a neat place setting, the handle held rigidly by the ghost of Mr. March. Her eyes widened in fear, bracing herself of what was to come, shaking her head while listening to his chilling words resonate like an echo.

"Be with me forever," he said firmly, prepared to stab Angela in the chest much to her protest as she lay beneath him still on the edge of the table.

"NO! NOOOO!" she screeched.

Angela could have sworn she felt the sting of the knife's blade in her forearm as she tried to cover herself out of defense, but the next time she looked up from shutting her eyes in fear, she saw that March was gone. She had still been partially undressed on the dining table of his suite, and even had a deep scratch from the knife on the side of her forearm. Laying back with tears in her feline-like eyes, she closed them and sniffled, stifling her tears only to turn her head to the right.

The knife's point had been embedded into the table.

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **So…the last official chapter of the story. I want to thank EVERYONE for your support in making** _Façade (AHS: Hotel)_ **the MOST POPULAR on my profile and the most popular story I've written. I can't express my gratitude enough.**

 **So, in case you're wondering, there will be an Epilogue posted next so stay tuned for that.**

 **In the meantime, please** **Share** **this story with your friends, and be sure to leave a nice** **Review** **,** **Favorite** **, and** **Follow** **my profile to stay tuned for future works. All are appreciated and encouraged.**

 **Thanks again!**


	29. Epilogue

_**~ epilogue ~**_

The Hotel Cortez was history—quite literally. Had it still stood by 2026, it would have been a century old. It didn't make it this far, though.

It was just as Pamela predicted to Angela as her last prophecy before crossing over into the light—every bit of the hotel was demolished, down to the foundation and even further down into the basement, where the discovery of hundreds of decomposed bodies made headlines in national news. Will had ordered its demolition and sold the property to Iris, who had to come up with an explanation for the dead bodies on national television.

"This was once the home of James Patrick March," she had told the press. "Now we know, all those legends about him are true. He was a serial killer. I personally would expect nothing less."

It was no longer home to any of the spirits after being torn down; Billie Dean's help in releasing them all became more of an act of charity, only charging $200, the price of one session, for the entire process. Seeing all the tortured souls as they left was enough to make her see past earning money. March was the only spirit sent to a less-favorable place than the others who crossed into the light.

Liz and Tristan even crossed over together, but not before an emotional farewell to his friends Iris and Angela—the afflicted, eternally twenty-four year old couldn't contain herself as her best friend crossed over with the love of his life.

The hotel in place of the hellish Cortez was designed by an architect to the stars and was given a very Romanesque atmosphere with white, gold, gray and black as its main color scheme. He had put stone columns, lamp-like chandeliers, and even glass beads embedded into the walls for a very modern feel. Charging at $350 per night, it truly reflected the heavenly celebrity lifestyle even if anybody with enough money saved could rent a room.

But the grand opening would not be for quite a while, and Angela would most certainly not be there for it—she was bound for Paris with Will Drake and his son Lachlan that January. The flight was scheduled right after the architect had made the plans and demolition was rather fast.

Iris decided to pay tribute to one of her only friends, renaming the hotel to the Hotel Saxon. Upon hearing this news, which was in the airport during farewells, Angela's eyes widened to epic proportions.

"Y-You're naming it…a-after _me_? Iris…I…"

"C'mon," Iris smirked, "it's the least I could do. You're one of my only friends, and this is to show how much I appreciate our friendship and how hiring you has changed the face of things. I hope you can come in another couple years for the grand opening."

"Oh, I sure will," Angela smiled.

The two afflicted women shared a hug, and Iris gave her a kiss on the cheek as a mother would. The two waved at each other and looked back at one another before the older woman wished her luck one last time.

"Good luck!"

However, Angela would not be heading for the fashion capital of the world just yet—she decided, before buying plane tickets with Will, to fly into Portsmouth, New Hampshire, her childhood home. January in New England this time of year was always freezing cold, especially in the northernmost states, but this didn't stop Angela from looking stylish in an oversized sweater with a faux fur-like texture, a knitted white beanie on top of her loose, dark chocolate curls, a skater skirt that only went to the mid-thigh, and tightly-woven fishnet tights that covered her legs like a second skin. Those with the blood virus were already used to the cold due to their abnormally-low body temperature, but Angela still despised the frigid sixteen-degree weather accompanied with a heavy wind that nearly swept her off her feet.

So casual, but so stylish, all for one occasion—one last farewell to her mother, Jeannie LaCroix, over late lunch at a modest steakhouse in the city square. Angela was making her way from the hotel they rented out for two nights to the location her mother suggested, and when she walked into the restaurant, she gave information on the reservations put in place.

"Jeannie and Angela?" the afflicted brunette inquired.

"Right this way," the hostess greeted.

She was led to a booth table where a woman of about forty-three years old with a white mug of dark roast coffee sat. Immediately in shock at her daughter's appearance, Jeannie fluffed her thick, straight black bob and smirked up at her. Angela looked down with her feline-blue eyes and had a blush to her cheeks, sitting herself across from her mother while removing her outerwear.

"Hi, mom!" Angela exclaimed with enthusiasm under her breath, trying to break the silence between the two.

"Angela," her mother said, sipping her coffee and putting the mug down, "you look…uh…"

"What?"

" _Amazing_ ," Jeannie said, emphatically and nearly speechless. "Different. What have you been doing in California to look so good?"

"Lots of things, mom," Angela replied to her mother vaguely as a waitress came to bring them menus with lunch specials along with glasses of water, which Jeannie sipped from slightly before noticing the paleness in her daughter's skin and the flawlessness of it; not a blackhead, scratch, nothing.

"You're flawless," Jeannie pointed out.

"Well, I'm on a healthy diet now. GMO-free, you know?" Angela fibbed, picking up her menu and looking down at the selections with pictures beside them to see if there was any dish that possibly had blood in it. "That stuff clogs pores."

"You could've fooled me," Jeannie said, looking down at the special salads for that afternoon. "I could've sworn you had a nose job or something."

"Nope."

The waitress came over, and looked down at the two when she arrived at their table with a notepad in hand and a pen, ready to write down their orders verbatim with a smile in her ruby red lips.

"Are you all set to order?"

"I…think my mom is," Angela said with a smile up at the waitress, who began to jot down everything from Jeannie's mouth.

"I would like a…cucumber-pecan salad. Grill the lettuce please," the woman said.

The waitress nodded, writing this down and smiling as she looked to Angela, whose feline-like eyes were still searching the menu for a bloody meat dish—"what about you, miss? What'll it be?"

"Uh…" Her finger went to a ribeye cut of steak in the picture with a baked potato and vegetable medley, "this steak here, uh…w-what's the rarest you can cook it?"

Jeannie looked at her daughter with shock, her almond-shaped green eyes widening at this rather odd request for her dish.

"Uh, we have a chef that can cook it blue," the waitress said with a slight squirm she was trying to mask in order to not seem rude to the customers.

"I want it very rare. In fact…" she paused, " _bloody_."

Jeannie's heart sank with worry, especially with the way her daughter said the last word of her sentence; Angela had a casual smile on her face, as though there were no connotations of a negative nature associated with blood at all. Clasping her hands near her coffee mug, she sighed and breathed out her nose with a slight whistle.

"Blue it is," the waitress said, writing it down. "You do realize that blue steak is so rare that it's raw, right?"

"Well, that's the point," Angela smirked, looking over at her rather frightened mother. "See, mom, I picked up this dietary rule in California where blood from meat is actually good for your hair and skin. It's got…uh, these proteins that are good for you."

Jeannie was silent, looking down at her mug—"well, whatever you're doing, it's working."

"Would you like a vegetable or potatoes with that?" the waitress asked.

"Uh…" Angela thought on her feet so she wouldn't look too strange ordering her food. "Y-Yeah…carrots and green beans in a medley?"

"Right on," the waitress smiled.

Walking away with their orders on the slip of paper in the memo pad, Angela smiled at her mother and took a sip of water from the glass supplied to her by the same waitress. Placing the glass down, she kept the smile plastered to her face and directed her eyes to her mother, who was still dumbfounded by how much Angela had changed—little did she know, she was afflicted with the ancient blood virus that made her practically vampiric.

"There was actually a dish I really liked when I tried it," Angela said, continuing from her fabricated explanation for her 'sudden' interest in blood.

"Huh?" Jeannie asked, an eyebrow cocked up.

"Coq au vin," the afflicted brunette said.

"My _mémère_ made that all the time whenever I went to her house," Jeannie said, taking the last sip of her coffee. "It doesn't have blood in it."

"Yes, it does. Well, the one I had did," Angela justified.

Jeannie ignored her daughter and put her mug at the edge of the booth table for collection. When she finally said something, Angela turned her eyes to her mother's and watched her lips move as they spoke.

"I'm glad you're finally on the ball," her mother said. "Congratulations."

"Thanks, mom."

"And you're going to be with _Will Drake_?" her mother questioned with amazement.

"Yeah, I met him while working in his hotel. He owned it briefly," Angela said. "The Hotel Cortez. I worked as a maid but got promoted to the front desk, but it's torn down now."

"Wasn't that the place they found a hundred bodies or so in the foundation beneath?" Jeannie asked as she sipped her water.

"Uh…yeah," the afflicted woman said. "The one who built it originally was a serial killer."

 _James March_ , she thought, _where could he possibly be now that he is released?_

Looking up at the overhead light and it's Tiffany-styled brim, Angela then turned her eyes to sideward-gaze at all of the patrons in the restaurant; she could see a family of five with their small baby in the highchair being fed by the wiry-haired mother; two sets of teen couples on a double date with the arms of the boys around their girlfriends; an old man, perhaps a military veteran, eating by his lonesome.

But then, she caught the gaze of a young man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, with a diamond jaw and piercing dark eyes that were so brown they were almost pitch black. He had a slightly hairy upper lip, and his hair was slicked back to perfection. He was clad in a navy blue suit with a silver ascot and a white undershirt and dress slacks that matched perfectly.

What was it that made Angela cringe the most? The fact that he raised his glass of Armagnac in her direction with a sadistic smile on his face.

"Angela?"

The afflicted woman didn't respond.

"Angela?"

Then, he snapped back into reality—"oh, uh, what?"

"Who were you just staring at?" Jeannie asked, finally having her daughter's attention.

"Oh, uh…" Angela thought on her feet and put on a rather happy façade—"just…thought I saw a familiar face."

Angela turned her eyes back to where she had seen what seemed to be a hallucination. Retracing the tracks of her gaze, she saw nothing.

* * *

 _ **a/n**_

 **I want to personally thank everyone once again for their support, especially since this is THE END of the story! I'm sad to see it go, personally, but in the future, there'll be bigger and better things to write as well.**

 **So what did you guys think? Did you like this ending? Please leave a Review, and be sure to Favorite and Follow me for future stories if you like my work!**


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